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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24143905">un peu de chocolat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithLoweredVoices/pseuds/WithLoweredVoices'>WithLoweredVoices</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU - No Sectumsempra scene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically all the Weasleys, Dealing with PTSD, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Hogwarts Professor Harry, M/M, Malfoy deserves a redemption arc, Mild canon divergence, Multi, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Epilogue Compliant, Numerous OCs - Freeform, Oblivious Harry, Past Auror Harry, Past Harry/Ginny - Freeform, Potions Master Malfoy, a lot Hogwarts professors, mentions of torture and death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:33:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>92,958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24143905</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithLoweredVoices/pseuds/WithLoweredVoices</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Potions Master Draco Malfoy is missing, presumed to be conspiring with known Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy. Professor Harry Potter has been given two weeks to find him - plenty of time to stew over his memories and long-buried feelings.<br/>~<br/>Quarantine fic! I would have lost my mind if it wasn't for re-reading old Drarry fanfics, so, here we are.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Daphne Greengrass/Luna Lovegood, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Ginny Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>241</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. up to something</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>‘What is it you want with me?’ Harry asks, irritation creeping into his voice. <br/>Proudfoot sighs again, heavily, and turns on his heels, facing Harry properly for the first time since he walked into the Great Hall. ‘I’ll give it to you straight, Potter,’ the senior Auror says. ‘Malfoy’s gone missing, and we’re pretty sure he’s up to something.’</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sky rumbles threateningly as the golden afternoon begins to fall into grey, dark clouds crowning over the sun. A balmy breeze sweeps in through the half-open windows of the greenhouse, bringing with it the scent of far-off rain. On the table, balanced precariously on a stack of upturned terracotta pots, the radio scratches out a belated warning of the oncoming storm. The first droplets of rain fall heavy upon the glass ceiling. </p><p>A few students are caught in the storm as it descends upon the sloping, green hills. They come running up into the castle, their shouts of surprise and laughter nearly drowned by the torrential rain. One girl - a fifth-year - shoves her wand in the air and casts a particularly impressive umbrella charm, modified to fit all her friends underneath. Harry watches the rain bounce off the invisible dome around the young witch, takes note of the colour of her tie, and waves his wand.</p><p>‘If I didn’t know better, Harry,’ says Neville, ‘I’d say you were prone to house favouritism.’</p><p>Harry glances at Neville. Neville’s shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, hands and forearms entirely covered in dragonhide gloves as he leans over a bonsai whomping willow. Neville notices Harry’s gaze and flashes a shit-eating grin.</p><p>‘Twelve points to Slytherin?’ Neville asks. ‘That’s, what, sixty points  total this week?’</p><p>Harry sighs. ‘I award points wherever I see exemplary spellwork and-’</p><p>‘<em>Innovative witchcraft and wizardry</em>,’ Neville finishes with a laugh. ‘So you’ve said. No personal bias whatsoever.’</p><p>Harry rolls his eyes. ‘I’ll close these, shall I?’ he asks, jerking his thumb at the open windows. A light spray has begun to blow in through the glass windows as the wind picks up. </p><p>Neville steps away from the table and peels off his gloves, tucking them into the back pocket of his trousers. ‘Yeah, go on then,’ he says, nodding. He squints at the dark sky. ‘We should be heading in too. Looks like it’s going to get nasty in a bit.’</p><p>Harry turns back to the windows. He waves his wand, racing through the long list of spells to protect the glass from the worst parts of the storm. The charms protecting the Herbology greenhouses are old and frayed. He’s been meaning to replace them for a while now, but in between grading and helping with quidditch practice, he never really got round to it. </p><p>‘Ooh, fancy,’ Neville whistles, admiring Harry’s wandwork. ‘You took a shortcut there somewhere. Should I expect Aurors showing up and poking at my plants again?’</p><p>‘That was <em>one </em>time,’ Harry says exasperatedly. </p><p>Neville is still laughing when they dash towards the safety of the castle and make it through the front doors, just as the rain grows torrential and lightning crashes down just beyond the dark wall of the Forbidden Forest. The air is sticky even inside the castle halls, regulation spells be damned, and Harry’s hair sticks uncomfortably to the back of his neck. He runs his fingers through his hair in irritation, wishing it was just an inch shorter.</p><p>‘You need a haircut, mate,’ Neville remarks, glancing at him as they head towards the Great Hall.</p><p>‘I know,’ Harry replies miserably. ‘But the place I like in Hogsmeade closed last year.’</p><p>Neville arches his eyebrows. ‘Mate, you’re literally a Defence teacher,’ he says, elbowing Harry in the ribs. ‘You’re telling me you can’t find a spell that will sort it out?’</p><p>‘We’ve had this discussion - spells don’t work on my hair,’ Harry sighs, gesturing at the untameable mane growing on his head. ‘It’s either potions or doing it the Muggle way.’</p><p>‘Then ask your boyfriend to send you another batch of potions,’ Neville says, leering.</p><p>Harry feels his ears start to burn. ‘He’s <em>not </em>my boyfriend,’ he says emphatically.</p><p>A group of fourth-year girls walking ahead of them turn around. One of them turns bright pink as the other two burst into fits of giggles.</p><p>‘Sixty points to Slytherin says otherwise,’ Neville teases. </p><p>Harry considers hexing the smarmy bastard, but then realizes that they’re surrounded by impressionable young students, and as the current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, he <em>really</em> shouldn’t condone that sort of thing. At least not in public. </p><p>Things used to be awkward with Neville, when Harry first started working at Hogwarts. Neville was everything Harry had hoped he’d become: he was calm, reliable, stupidly handsome, and everyone liked him. Neville didn’t look like he woke up in the middle of the night sweating, trembling from vivid nightmares. Neville didn’t snap at people at the slightest provocation. And Neville was the one engaged to Ginny - and poor, lonely Harry Potter couldn’t even make it to the third date with someone before they went straight to the Prophet and spilled everything for a measly handful of Galleons.</p><p>But then Neville was there when Harry was at his lowest three years ago, sitting in the charred remains of the Room of Hidden Things, his face streaked with ash and tears. Neville was the one that sat with Harry up in the Astronomy Tower until dawn, listening to Harry shakily explain how bad his PTSD had gotten, how sometimes he was too afraid to bring a Boggart into his lessons for fear of whether he’d scar his students, because the things that he’s seen through Voldemort’s eyes should never, <em>ever</em> be seen by any child. </p><p>Ron and Hermione - they’re family, but Neville is Harry’s best friend. </p><p>So Neville is the only who knows, really, why Harry left the Aurors four years ago. Neville knows who Harry sends those owls to every week, the same person who sends back chocolates and home-brewed potions and first-edition books. Neville knows why Harry is always nicer to the Slytherins than the other professors, why Harry tends to spend more time with the prickly, difficult students that nobody else wants to deal with. Neville doesn’t judge. He just listens, and he smiles, and makes shitty jokes at Harry’s expense and makes Harry feel normal.</p><p>‘I could have a go at it, if you like,’ Neville says as they take their seats at the High Table.</p><p>‘At what?’ Harry asks, snapping out of his thoughts.</p><p>‘Your hair,’ Neville replies. He spoons a helping of roast potatoes into Harry’s plate. ‘I managed fine with the bonsai.’</p><p>‘My hair is not a magical plant,’ Harry retorts, handing Neville the salad. ‘And all your scissors are covered in controlled substances.’</p><p>‘I know a few hair-trimming spells,’ Professor Flitwick pipes up from Harry’s left elbow.</p><p>Harry turns to his ex-professor and scratches awkwardly at the base of his skull. ‘Spells don’t really take, sir,’ he explains. ‘But thanks for the offer.’</p><p>‘Flitwick,’ the wizard corrects. ‘I’ve told you before, Potter, I’m not your teacher anymore. <em>Flitwick.</em>’ He flicks his wand at the salad and the bowl floats gently back along the table. </p><p>‘Are there almonds in there, Filius?’ calls Professor Singh from further along the table. She’s been teaching Ancient Runes since the beginning of the year. Harry thinks he’d like her, if only she weren’t so damn American. She refers to everyone by their first name, except Harry, who she insists on calling <em>dude</em>, and she talks at a volume usually only achievable with a Sonorous. ‘It looks good, but if there’s almonds, I’m going to need to make a run for Madame Pomfrey.’</p><p>‘There aren’t any almonds,’ Neville tells her with a friendly smile. ‘You’re safe.’</p><p>‘Fantastic!’ Singh grins, flashing all her straight, pearly teeth.</p><p>Neville turns his face slightly, lifting his hand as though to yawn, and mouths <em>fantastic </em>at Harry.</p><p>Harry snorts into his pumpkin juice.</p><p>‘You okay there, dude?’ Singh bellows.</p><p>‘Fine!’ Harry replies. ‘Perfectly fine.’ He kicks Neville’s shin under the table and makes the Herbology professor spill the almond-free salad down the front of his robes. </p><p>From the Headmistress’s seat at the middle of the High Table, McGonagall looks like she’s plotting their slow and painful murder. Flitwick retrieves the salad and Neville spoons more potatoes into Harry’s plate. They have treacle tart for dessert, which means Neville gives Harry his share. McGonagall and Trelawney get into a debate about large cats, and Singh weighs in from her end of the table, much to McGonagall’s abject horror. The only booms that shake the castle foundations are those of the vicious thunderstorm wrecking its way through Scotland - but Hogwarts’s defensive spells hold fast. </p><p>But something’s wrong. </p><p>Static prickles at the back of Harry’s neck and crawls all the way down his spine, where it makes his gut twist painfully. He eyes every corner, every opening of the Great Hall, and it’s all the same as it’s always been, safe and warm and full of fond memories - but something is coming up the hill on the winds of the storm and Harry can taste it behind his teeth.</p><p>The double doors of the Great Hall swing open with a bang and Harry is out of his seat, his wand in his hand. Three figures stride through the long tables of gathered students, tracking in mud and rainwater. The Great Hall falls into awful, shocked silence as the men make their way down past the long tables of students. </p><p>Neville grabs Harry firmly by the wrist and drags him back into his seat. ‘Easy, Harry,’ Neville whispers. </p><p>But Harry can’t help but tighten his grip on his wand. His heart hammers away in his chest as his vision sharpens, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Harry recognizes Proudfoot immediately, though he’s aged since they last saw each other and looks to have gathered a few more scars. The young man to Proudfoot’s left is unfamiliar. He looks barely a day over twenty, which means he’s probably a fresh recruit. The tall man to Proudfoot’s right, however, sets Harry’s teeth on edge. He knows an Unspeakable when he sees one. </p><p>Neville’s grip is an iron vice, but Harry barely feels it. His mouth is sandpaper dry. He hears the whip-crack of curses ricocheting off stone, the rumble of walls collapsing like distant thunder, the screams of people trapped under rubble, the stink of blood and burnt flesh.  </p><p>‘Really sorry about the intrusion, Headmistress,’ apologizes Proudfoot. He sounds sincere, at least, but he’s avoiding Harry’s eye. Maybe he’s disappointed in Harry’s wasted potential.</p><p><em>Join the fucking club</em>, Harry thinks viciously. The whole wizarding world is disappointed in the Chosen One’s wasted potential. </p><p>The young one puffs himself up to his full height and pulls a scroll out of his jacket. They’re all like that in the beginning - arrogant. Self-assured. </p><p>He holds the warrant up for inspection. ‘We need to speak with Mr. Potter,’ the young Auror announces. His voice is deafening in the terse silence, and even Singh winces. </p><p>‘We’re conducting an investigation, see,’ Proudfoot sighs. He glances at Harry, then looks quickly away, but not before Harry recognizes the look in the grizzled old Auror’s face. <em>Guilt</em>.</p><p>McGonagall summons the scroll with a flick of her wand. She unrolls the paper slowly, peering through her spectacles at the document. ‘Technically, gentlemen,’ she says, her voice crisp with displeasure, ‘this document is incorrect. You have a warrant here for a Mr. Harry James Potter, but the correct prefix is <em>Professor</em>. Am to expect similar carelessness in your investigation?’ </p><p>The young Auror turns a delicate shade of beetroot. </p><p>‘What is it you want with me?’ Harry asks, irritation creeping into his voice. </p><p>Proudfoot sighs again, heavily, and turns on his heels, facing Harry properly for the first time since he walked into the Great Hall. ‘I’ll give it to you straight, Potter,’ the senior Auror says. ‘Malfoy’s gone missing, and we’re pretty sure he’s up to something.’</p><p>-</p><p>Malfoy is up to something.</p><p>Or at least, he was supposed to be. He’s supposed to be sneering, congratulating himself for a victory in the name of the Dark Lord.</p><p>But Malfoy is crying. His long, lean body curled over the sink, his body heaving with ugly, bone-crushing sobs, his knuckles white as he grips onto the sink. He’s sloppy when he whirls around at Harry, his voice shrill with desperation as he tries to get all the syllables out, but he’s slow, and Harry’s always been faster in a duel.</p><p>‘<em>Cruci</em>-’</p><p>‘<em>Expelliarmus</em>!’ Harry shouts.</p><p>Malfoy’s wand flies out of his hand with a burst of red light. Harry snatches it out of the air with a Seeker’s accuracy. </p><p>Malfoy stares at him for a while, mouth open, eyes bloodshot, his left hand still clenched at the rim of the sink. Then, like a puppet with all its strings cut, he collapses in a heap on the cold floor. He’s so small, suddenly. So thin. His skin is so paper-translucent that Harry can count all the veins at his wrists and neck.</p><p>He doesn’t look like the sneering boy who broke Harry’s nose on the train. He looks like a spectre, or a reflection caught on a frosted window - all pale and warped out of shape. </p><p>Harry reaches for the rage that’s been feeding him all these months, that monster created from grief and loss and pain, but it’s gone. Fizzled out.</p><p>He pockets Malfoy’s wand and kneels carefully in front of the other boy. Malfoy’s wrists are deathly thin and his hands shake with a strange, unnatural tremor. There are bruises blooming on the inside of his collar. His lips are cracked and bleeding, and each breath he takes sounds ragged. </p><p>‘Are you alright?’ Harry asks, the question taking him by surprise even as he voices it. </p><p>‘What the fuck do you think, Potter?’ Malfoy says. There is a strange blankness to his voice, one that makes Harry want to run in the opposite direction. Another tremor shudders up from his elbows, making his hands twitch, and he grimaces, baring his teeth. </p><p>‘Why are you shaking?’ Harry asks. Dread twists in his stomach like a snake uncoiling. </p><p>Malfoy lowers his gaze to his hands and stares at them like they aren’t part of his body. ‘Side effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse,’ he says. ‘You’d know that, Potter, if you ever bothered to open a book.’ </p><p>An icy numbness washes over Harry’s face. ‘<em>What?</em>’</p><p>Malfoy laughs, or at least, tries to. The sound is a hollow, jarring thing. ‘Circe, Potter,’ he says, his eyes too wide, too dark. ‘Didn’t you know? It’s all part and parcel of serving our Dark Lord. Torture and death. Death and torture. ’ He leans his head back, falling into the shadows beneath the sink, and he stares at Harry with those too-wide eyes. ‘I think I’ve had enough of the torture bit.’</p><p>Harry thinks of Neville’s parents in St. Mungo’s. He thinks of Sirius falling through the veil. He thinks of Cedric’s body, cold and lead-heavy in his arms. </p><p>Harry’s had enough of corpses. </p><p>‘Shut up, Malfoy,’ Harry grits out. ‘I’m going to be right back. Stay here, or I’m not giving your wand back.’</p><p>Malfoy looks away. ‘Don’t worry, Potter,’ he says, so quiet Harry almost misses it. ‘I don’t have anywhere to go anyways.’</p><p>-</p><p>Harry sits on his desk, thighs spread and arms folded over his chest. ‘Well this is a bit familiar, isn’t it?’ he asks with a slight grin. </p><p>Proudfoot frowns deeply. ‘We’re not accusing you of anything, Potter.’</p><p>‘Not this time,’ Harry says with a shrug. </p><p>During his first year working in Hogwarts, the Ministry had (illegally) continued the tracking spells placed on his wand. When one of Neville’s sixth-year students had accidentally fallen into a bush of extremely carnivorous hybrid plants, Harry’s years of Auror training had kicked in and he’d fired off a succession of binding spells at the bush before it could do any damage to the screaming teenager. Ten minutes later, a group of Aurors had descended upon the greenhouses, accusing Harry of going Dark and attacking students.</p><p>It had been extremely embarrassing for the Ministry, considering their history of arresting famous professors. and Harry had let them go with a warning and a promise to take the tracking spells off of his wand.</p><p>Proudfoot, apparently remembering the same incident, turns a delicate shade of puce. He coughs and shifts his weight from foot to foot. ‘That was an honest mistake, Potter.’</p><p>‘Of course,’ Harry smiles. ‘Oh, don’t touch that. It’s got a bat bogey hex on it.’</p><p>The young Auror jerks his hand away from the small music box sitting on one of the students’ desks. He turns to level an accusatory glare at Harry. ‘Why do you keep dangerous items in your classroom?’ he growls.</p><p>Harry arches an eyebrow. ‘I teach Defence,’ he replies blandly. ‘It would be remiss of me not to provide the children with any practical experience. And I would hardly rate a childish hex as <em>dangerous</em>.’ </p><p>There really isn’t anything dangerous in his classroom at all. The walls are covered in large, colourful diagrams that shift and change according to the lesson, and most of the items he uses to teach his practical lessons are locked away in warded cabinets behind his desk. There is an enormous terrarium of grindylows at the back of the room, placed behind the last row of desks. His fourth-years take turns feeding them. Next year they’ll be released into the Great Lake and Harry will find a new classroom pet to study and take care of - usually chosen by a vote across his year groups. Despite his reputation, Harry is hardly the sort of reckless idiot who’d put children in needless danger. </p><p>The young Auror - <em>Smythe, Harry thinks his name is - </em> isn’t done, apparently, and he points towards the various magic items stowed away in Harry’s glass cabinets. ‘Do you have the proper paperwork for those?’ he demands. </p><p>‘I really don’t see how that’s relevant,’ Harry replies pleasantly.</p><p>Proudfoot pinches the bridge of his nose. </p><p>Smythe glowers at Harry. He pulls his wand out of his holster and strides towards the nearest cabinet. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to inspect them,’ he announces. </p><p>Harry lets Smythe get about three steps past him, before he wiggles his fingers, wandlessly tying Smythe’s shoelaces. The Auror goes down like a sack of bricks.</p><p>Harry leans over towards the fallen Auror, resting his elbow on his knee. ‘Auror Smythe,’ he says, still smiling, ‘I’d like to remind you that this is school property, and that while you have a warrant to ask me questions, you don’t have a warrant to tamper with any of my belongings, personal or otherwise. So, either get on with the investigation, or get the hell out.’</p><p>‘We just need to know if you know where he’s gone,’ Proudfoot interrupts, drawing Harry’s attention back towards him. He looks apologetic, which Harry supposes counts for something.</p><p>‘He’s in Brussels,’ Harry replies bluntly. ‘Where he’s been for the past year. It’s on his business card and everything. He does monthly ads in the Quibbler - Malfoy isn’t exactly in hiding, you know.’</p><p>‘Have you heard from him recently?’ Proudfoot presses.</p><p>Harry narrows his eyes. ‘What’s this really about?’</p><p>‘Draco Malfoy has not shown up to his place of work in a week,’ Proudfoot says, 'and there are signs that he left in a hurry. We also have a lead that the dangerous Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, is in Brussels. They may be working together.’</p><p><em>Not this stupidity again.</em> </p><p>Harry shakes his head slowly at Proudfoot. ‘You’re never going to find him if you pursue that angle,’ he tells the senior Auror.</p><p>Harry and Draco used to have a good laugh at the very prospect of Draco <em>ever</em> having anything to do with that nasty, pathetic excuse of a wizard. Lucius deserves to rot in Azkaban for the rest of his natural life for what he did. </p><p>Anyways, Draco’s probably gone on holiday. It’s a damn hot time of year, and Harry knows Draco is partial to getting a vicious sunburn on the sandy banks of De Haan whenever the temperature climbs above twenty-five. He’ll be back in the office in no time - but Harry doesn’t tell the Aurors that. He’d rather watch them chase their tails uselessly until Draco turns back up at his private practice, reeking of sunburn-potion and with his hair bleached near-white.</p><p>‘What?’ snaps Smythe, on his feet and free of the tripping hex. ‘Do you think you could do our job better than us?’</p><p>‘I did,’ Harry points out. ‘For ten years.’</p><p>It’s funny how selective the Ministry’s memory is - but they’ve always been a bit biased when it comes to Harry. For every year that he saved the wizarding world as a child, he’d been dragged through hearings and reprimands as though he was some sort of miniature Dark Wizard in the making. Then, after the War, they’d slapped a medal on him and made him an Auror before he could even think about what he wanted. He was damned good at it, too. There was talk of making him Head Auror, before he left.</p><p>‘Then perhaps two weeks should be enough, Professor Potter.’</p><p>Harry whips his head around, staring at the Unspeakable. The man stands by the door with his hands tucked into his pockets, watching Harry with an unreadable expression.</p><p>‘Excuse me?’ Harry frowns. He’s unsure if he hallucinated it - the Unspeakable hasn’t uttered a word since he stepped into Harry’s classroom.</p><p>The man smiles. His teeth are brilliant against his dark skin. ‘You may have two weeks to perform a private investigation into the disappearance of Draco Malfoy,’ says the Unspeakable. ‘After that point, you will make every effort to cooperate with Auror Proudfoot and his partner.’</p><p>‘Two weeks?’ Harry repeats. He’s losing his mind. He has to be. Or else he inhaled a hallucinogenic spore in Neville’s greenhouse and is now having a very bad trip.</p><p>‘You captured Rowle after six days’ pursuit,’ the Unspeakable replies, as though that’s a suitable explanation. ‘Surely two weeks is ample time to conduct an investigation.’</p><p><em>It’s not the timeline I’m having a problem with here, </em>Harry wants to yell, but he’s still a bit too stunned to say much else.</p><p>Christ. Merlin. He’s a teacher, for fuck’s sake. And he’s got examinations to oversee. He can’t just go traipsing off to Europe on a wild goose chase for a wizard who probably isn’t missing anyways. He’s got <em>responsibilities</em>.</p><p>‘You have until tomorrow evening to make preparations,’ the Unspeakable continues smoothly. ‘We will arrange an international portkey for you, but the rest will have to be at your own expense.’</p><p>Proudfoot seems as perturbed by the whole situation as Harry is. ‘Now just wait here, Zabini,’ the Auror says, pointing at the Unspeakable. ‘The Department of Mysteries don’t have the authority to let a Hogwarts teacher hijack an Auror investigation.’</p><p>The Unspeakable smiles a little wider. ‘Oh, but we can,’ he says, and winks at Harry, like they’re both involved in this hare-brained scheme. He pulls a small envelope out of the pocket of his robes and sends it flying over to Proudfoot with an elegant flick of his wand.</p><p>Proudfoot snatches the envelope out of the air and tears it open, pulling out a letter stamped with the seal of the Minister of Magic. The corners of his mouth draw tighter and tighter as his flinty eyes dart over the letter. Harry already knows what’s written there - he was in the room when the document was drafted. He just never thought it would mean <em>field work</em>. </p><p>‘Professor Harry James Potter,’ Proudfoot reads aloud, his face pinching as though he’s tasted something vile, ‘is hereby appointed official consultant to the Department of Mysteries.’ He thrusts the letter in Harry’s direction. ‘<em>This </em>is what you left us for?’</p><p>Harry ignores the senior Auror. He’s not in the mood for this particular argument. </p><p>Instead, he turns towards the Unspeakable. ‘You’re not giving me a choice, are you?’ he asks wearily.</p><p>‘Of course we are,’ says the Unspeakable, flashing Harry a conspiratorial smile. ‘Seven o’clock, Professor. We’ll be waiting.’</p><p>-</p><p>‘I can’t believe you made me wait nearly half an hour, Potter,’ Malfoy grumbles. He’s sitting with his knees pressed up against his chest, his fingers interlaced as he hugs his legs close. A fit of trembling makes him shudder, his face creasing with the force of it. </p><p>Harry strides over to him and digs the bar of chocolate out of his pocket. It’s Muggle, bought in a hurry at an off-licence as an afterthought for Ron to try out. He never thought he’d be handing one over to Draco sodding Malfoy, of all people.</p><p>Malfoy’s hand is shaking as he takes the chocolate bar from Harry. He can barely rip the foil packet open. He drops it a few times, cursing under his breath, blotches of red appearing at his pale cheeks. Locks of limp, wet hair fall into his face. He looks ghastly. </p><p>Harry wonders how Malfoy’s been hiding this. He’s been watching Malfoy obsessively since before term started, but he’s never noticed - <em>how has he not noticed this?</em></p><p>Malfoy scowls at the chocolate bar like it’s about to sprout three heads and hiss at him. ‘What is this?’</p><p>Harry rolls his eyes. ‘It’s chocolate, obviously,’ he replies. ‘Eat. It’ll make you feel better.’</p><p>He doesn’t mean to repeat Remus’s words, but they fall out of him anyways. It feels right somehow.</p><p>Malfoy seems less than pleased at being ordered around, but he takes a dainty little bite of chocolate. There is an absurdity to all of it that makes Harry want to laugh. Instead, he sits down next to Malfoy, holding both their wands in his left hand. Something feels like it’s shifting under his feet, like the whole world is tilting in a different direction, and he doesn’t know what to do with the enormity of it all.</p><p>‘Why haven’t you looked like this before?’ Harry demands. ‘You’re always… I don’t know.’ He gestures lamely, failing to find the words for Malfoy’s general snooty, annoying presence. </p><p>‘I don’t see why I have to explain anything to you,’ Malfoy retorts. </p><p>‘Because you nearly killed someone, and I could easily hand you over,’ Harry snaps. He can feel the anger bubbling in his gut again, threatening to spill over. </p><p>Malfoy laughs hollowly. ‘Then do it. I have nothing left to lose.’</p><p>Harry thinks about Sirius, that night in the Shrieking Shack. Sirius had been the perfect picture of a wild, Dark Wizard - covered in tattoos, barking out every word through gritted teeth, his eyes were just a little too dark, too wide, his laughter off-pitch and manic. And Harry - Harry had <em>hated</em> him. </p><p>He’d been wrong about villains and victims before. Maybe he’s wrong about Malfoy, too.</p><p>‘Did you do it because… were you forced to do it?’ </p><p>‘Well, I’m not under the Imperius Curse,’ Malfoy chuckles darkly. ‘Clearly.’</p><p>Harry chews on his lip. ‘Can you stop?’ he asks. </p><p>Malfoy gives him a scathing look. ‘Oh, sure, Potter,’ he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I’ll just stroll up to the Dark Lord, shall I? Tell him I’m not interested in his little side-quest anymore, thanks ever so much.’ He shakes his head. ‘You really have less brains than a flobberworm, Potter.’ </p><p>Harry bristles at the insult. ‘Christ. Merlin.’ He stands up and shoves Malfoy’s wand back at him. ‘I’m just trying to be nice,’ he snaps. <em>Not that Malfoy would know what that even means.</em></p><p>Malfoy stares up at Harry. His eyes are so pale they might as well be transparent. He says nothing as he pulls his wand from Harry’s fingers. Somehow, his silence proves more unnerving than his usual biting remarks.</p><p>Harry shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the strange feeling threatening to creep into his blood. He won’t pity Malfoy. He won’t do it. </p><p>‘Just try and stay alive, Malfoy,’ he growls, whirling on his heel and making for the exit. ‘I’m sick of watching people die.’</p><p>-</p><p>Sometimes Harry wonders if they should have just called him the Boy Who Watches Other People Die.</p><p>Because that’s what he does. He watches people die, and he does nothing to stop it. He watches as Dumbledore tumbles off the Astronomy Tower. He watches through Voldemort’s eyes as countless people - innocent or otherwise - are slaughtered. His days and nights are haunted by flashes of green and the sound of Nagini’s jaws snapping shut.</p><p>
  <em>Torture and death. Death and torture.</em>
</p><p>Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lives, but only by an inch. He doesn’t know how many times he comes so fucking close to dying, on his seventh year as a wizard. He doesn’t bother keeping count. In the Forest of Dean, they run low on food and Harry wonders if maybe this is how he goes - starving slowly, going mad with the dullness of waiting for the axe to fall. When the Snatchers catch them and drag them to Malfoy Manor, Harry is pretty certain they’re going to die, that despite his shitty disguise, someone is going to recognize him, and it’ll all be over.</p><p>Except then Malfoy appears, pale and skeletal, twitching from curse damage, and the crazy bastard lies to a room full of Death Eaters. </p><p>Malfoy sneaks down into the dungeons later, his eyes dark and his cheeks sunken, and he presses chocolate into Harry’s palm. The fingers of Malfoy’s left hand twitch uncontrollably, and he nearly drops the tiny packet of silver foil and coloured paper.  ‘It’s all I have left,’ he whispers. ‘I’m so sorry.’</p><p>Harry isn’t sure which part of all of this Malfoy is apologizing for. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says, because it feels like the truth.</p><p>Above, Hermione screams, and both Harry and Malfoy grip each other tightly. The War is a gargantuan, bloated creature that hovers above them, and they are small, helpless, and afraid. Harry knows he is meant to be noble. He is the Chosen One. But his best friend is being tortured, and he doesn’t even have his wand.</p><p>Malfoy presses his fist against Harry’s chest. ‘You’ve got to stop this,’ he hisses. He pulls out his wand and presses it to his own neck. ‘I’ll make it look like you attacked me. Overpowered me.’ Malfoy takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘You can still make it out of here alive.’</p><p>Ice rushes through Harry’s veins. <em>You can still make it out of here alive. </em>You. Not <em>we</em>.</p><p><em>I think I’m done with the torture bit,</em> Malfoy had said. </p><p>Harry slams the other boy against the dungeon wall and tears the wand from his hand. ‘<em>No!</em>’ he growls. ‘Bloody fucking hell, Malfoy. I told you to stay alive.’ Harry glances up the stairs. ‘Come with us,’ he says. </p><p>It’s stupid. It’s impossible. He doesn’t even know if the Order will give Malfoy sanctuary - not with the Dark Mark twisting on his forearm, not with the people he’s tortured, possibly killed. He doesn’t know if they’ll even make it off the grounds of Malfoy Manor. But he’s so fucking tired of being the Boy Who Watches People Die.</p><p>Malfoy shakes his head. ‘I can’t. I can’t go on like this.’ His eyes are as bright as starshine. Everything else about him is coloured in ash and bone. ‘You don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know what he’s made me do.’</p><p>Hermione screams again. The sound is a basilisk’s fang in Harry’s heart. </p><p>‘Go,’ says Malfoy.</p><p>Harry clutches the hawthorn wand in his hand. ‘Come with us,’ he says one last time.</p><p>Malfoy smiles a strange, sad little smile. ‘You know I can’t,’ he replies quietly. ‘But for you, Potter, just for you, I’ll stay alive.’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. absence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>‘What if you can’t find him?’ she asks softly.<br/>‘I’ll find him,’ Harry says, because that’s how they are, him and Draco, Draco and him. ‘I always do.’</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry buries his head in his hands and lets out a frustrated moan.</p><p>‘It’s alright, mate,’ Ron says, patting his shoulder lightly. ‘It’s not that bad.’</p><p>Hermione rubs his back soothingly. ‘You made some very good points, Harry,’ she tells him brightly. ‘Even if you did call the members of the Wizengamot <em>fucking close-minded wankers.</em>’</p><p>Harry groans. ‘Why did I say that? <em>Why did I say that?</em>’</p><p>‘Well, they were being rather close-minded,’ Hermione says thoughtfully. ‘And you were right, Harry. There were plenty of mitigating factors that forced Malfoy into what he did in sixth year. Though perhaps you could have articulated it a little better.’</p><p>She’s gotten a lot more cool-headed since the war ended. Harry thought the same would happen to him, but he feels like a bomb ready to go off at any moment, full to the brim with sharp, hot rage. The one thing that got him through the worst of it was the promise of peace. But the wizarding world seems to enjoy lingering in the shit and quagmire of the war, dragging on the war trials in a disgustingly public spectacle, throwing overpriced memorial balls and shallow benefits. Meanwhile, nothing is being done about the wandless families, the injured, or the decimated homes. Hogwarts is still in ruins - no reconstruction can be carried out until the Ministry issues the appropriate approvals, but of course they’re too preoccupied with prosecuting anyone remotely related to a Death Eater.</p><p>Malfoy just sat there, mutely accepting all the ludicrous charges against him, shackled, and shoved into a warded cage as though he were some dangerous criminal. Harry couldn’t peel his eyes away from Malfoy’s hands, twitching and jerking helplessly in his lap. His wrists were so thin the shackles didn’t even fit. </p><p>Harry managed to make it through an hour of the trial before he finally snapped.</p><p>‘We got a good laugh out of your outburst,’ Ron grins. ‘I liked the bit where you made the witness stand explode. Very theatrical.’</p><p>Hermione smacks him on the shoulder with no small amount of force. ‘Ronald!’</p><p>Without the ever-present weight of Voldemort’s horcrux in his body, his magic is completely out of balance. The Healers say he’ll get it under control soon enough, but for now he’s prone to fits of accidental magic. Some days it makes all his cutlery float. Other days he makes things explode - like today, where he’s reduced the court to splinters and warped metal. </p><p>Harry can see the headlines already: <em>Chosen One Chooses Violence! Harry Potter Blows Up Wizengamot at Death Eater Trial. </em>He makes a wheezing sound as he stares at the floor and wonders if this is what it’s like to have a panic attack.</p><p>A pair of extremely shiny, patent-leather shoes step in Harry’s vision. </p><p>‘That was quite an impressive display, Potter,’ says Malfoy’s voice from above him, the usual bite somehow missing from his words. ‘Would you like to set the Department of Mysteries on fire next, perhaps?’ </p><p>When Harry looks up, Malfoy’s eyes are dancing with amusement.</p><p>‘Ugh,’ says Harry with characteristic eloquence.</p><p>Malfoy arches an eyebrow, managing to come off cool and aristocratic despite resembling a very well-dressed Inferi. ‘Yes, quite.’ He turns towards Hermione. ‘Granger,’ he says stiffly. ‘Would you mind if we had a word? In private,’ he adds, ‘if you’re amenable.’</p><p>Hermione glances at Ron, who shrugs. Since the battle of Hogwarts, they’ve more or less stopped considering Malfoy a threat. All three of them had witnessed the way Malfoy flung himself at Crabbe in an attempt to stop the fiendfyre. And they’d all seen the way he broke down at the sight of Harry’s limp body in Hagrid’s arms, the way he refused to stand with the other Death Eaters. And none of them would ever forget what he did for them in Malfoy Manor. </p><p>‘Alright,’ Hermione replies, nodding primly. </p><p>She gives Harry another reassuring pat on the back, stands up with a swish of her formal robes, and follows Malfoy down the corridor. Harry can hear her fussing even after they’ve rounded the corner out of sight. ‘Really, Malfoy, you should have someone take a look at that. I’ve been doing some light reading, and apparently curse damage can turn into a lifelong disability if you don’t treat it immediately-’</p><p>Ron wiggles his eyebrows at Harry. ‘I think Mione’s got a new project,’ he grins. ‘Poor sod.’</p><p>Harry smiles wryly, forgetting his own embarrassment for a second. Hermione is a force of nature on a normal day, but when she gets locked onto a cause - well.<em> Poor sod indeed.</em></p><p>-</p><p>‘What do you mean, Draco’s missing?’ Hermione demands, striding out of the fireplace in Harry’s study. She’s still dressed in her formal robes, with her hair pulled back into a severe bun. </p><p>‘Hi, Hermione,’ Harry smiles, looking up from his packing. ‘Come straight from work?’</p><p>She brandishes Harry’s hastily scribbled message threateningly. ‘Don’t you try and change the subject,’ she frowns. ‘What’s happened to Draco? Why are they sending you to find him? I thought you quit the Ministry.’</p><p>‘I quit the DMLE,’ Harry clarifies. ‘And then the Department of Mysteries hired me separately.’</p><p>‘What?’ Hermione utters, indignant. ‘Harry! Why didn’t you tell us?’</p><p>‘I work for the Unspeakables,’ Harry says dryly. ‘That seems pretty self-explanatory.’ </p><p>Hermione glares at him hard enough to burn a hole in his skull, but after their decades of friendship, he’s gotten pretty used to it. He flicks his wand at the small wardrobe beside his bookcase, spelling his formal suit into his suitcase. He won’t need his robes in Brussels, which will be a relief considering the current heatwave. </p><p>‘To answer your other question,’ Harry says, ‘apparently Draco’s not been turning up to work for the past week. I think he’s probably gone to De Haan to escape the heat.’</p><p>‘I don’t know about that,’ Hermione frowns. She pockets Harry’s letter and folds her arms over her chest. ‘He hasn’t been returning my letters. Normally he’s really good about writing back.’</p><p>‘Yeah, he hasn’t written to me, either,’ Harry nods. ‘But he does go off the grid from time to time.’</p><p>Even as he utters the words, Harry’s gut gives an odd little twist. He didn’t receive his weekly letter and package from Draco this week, which is admittedly not out of the ordinary - but Draco <em>always</em> responds to Hermione. Not once since the trials has Draco missed a message. As loathe as he is to admit it, his Draco-on-vacation theory is looking a little shaky. </p><p>Hermione shakes her head. ‘It feels off,’ she says. ‘I’m worried about him. I’m worried about you, too. You shouldn’t have to do this.’</p><p>Harry sighs heavily. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he says. ‘And while I’m not exactly happy about being sent abroad halfway through my students’ exams, I’m perfectly fine. It’s not like before, Hermione.’ He walks around the desk and places his palms on her shoulders. ‘I promise.’</p><p>Hermione chews anxiously on her lip. ‘I don’t like it,’ she whispers. </p><p>‘I know,’ Harry replies gently.</p><p>She covers Harry’s hands with her own, squeezing over his scarred knuckles, over the harsh, white letters carved into his skin. There are scars on his wrists too, and more tracking up his arms beneath the sleeves of his shirt. There’s a reason Harry left the Aurors behind - ten years’ worth of reasons. She and Ron saw the worst parts of it, the drunken nights and the string of nameless lovers, the horrific injuries that only got worse after Ron left the Aurors and there was nobody left to watch his back. </p><p>‘What if you can’t find him?’ she asks softly.</p><p>‘I’ll find him,’ Harry says, because that’s how they are, him and Draco, Draco and him. ‘I always do.’</p><p>-</p><p>Harry can’t seem to find Malfoy anywhere, after the trials. He’s nowhere and everywhere at once, and it’s infuriating, because all Harry wants to do is return Malfoy’s wand.</p><p>He asks Andromeda when he visits. Teddy is old enough to sit up now, and he grabs fistfuls of Harry’s hair and tries to eat Harry’s sweater as Harry tries to focus on their conversation. Andromeda tells Harry that Narcissa’s moved to France and they’ve sold the Manor - apparently Narcissa wants nothing to do with her husband’s name or assets anymore. Malfoy, however, is still under parole, and cannot travel or use magic until his sentence is done. </p><p>‘He writes me lovely letters though,’ Andromeda adds thoughtfully. ‘You know, he reminds of Regulus, sometimes. Poor, sweet boys.’ She coaxes Teddy off of Harry and holds him hostage in the crook of her arm, gently batting away his tiny, grabbing hands. ‘Would you like to see one?’</p><p>It really is a lovely letter. Every sentence is poetry, every statement is heartrendingly genuine. Malfoy asks after Teddy, offers a few methods to deal with Teddy’s colic, and encloses a recipe for a potion to alleviate Andromeda’s arthritis. </p><p>Harry only knows the person who stole the Remembrall from Neville, who sneered at Harry’s friends and called them nasty slurs, who stomped on Harry’s nose and left him to choke on the blood. He doesn’t know this Malfoy, who writes things like, <em>If I could rewrite my entire history and teach myself the kindness and compassion you have shown me, I would. </em></p><p>He leaves Andromeda’s home feeling as though the ground’s been torn away beneath his feet, and he’s freefalling with no idea of where he’s going to land. </p><p>Harry can’t find Malfoy anywhere, but his echoes seem to haunt Harry wherever he goes.</p><p>It’s Christmas at the Burrow, and Bill pulls Harry aside, places a letter in his hand, and asks if he’s put Malfoy up to this. It’s another lovely letter, one that makes Harry take a long walk outside to clear his head. There’s a recipe for wolfsbane potion there too, one that leaves far fewer side effects and tastes a lot less like shit, according to Bill’s attempts at brewing it. When Harry comes back inside to help with Dinner, Molly pulls him aside and asks him if Malfoy’s doing alright, because she saw him in Diagon Alley while she was Christmas shopping and he was looking dreadfully skinny, and he gave her a letter which made her very sad and very worried about him when she read it.</p><p>‘He’s on his own, Harry,’ Molly sniffs, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘That’s not right. Not on Christmas. But he won’t come for dinner. Says he’s under house arrest. Oh, Harry, it’s not right.’</p><p>Apparently Malfoy wrote Arthur a letter too, containing a clipping of a Muggle newspaper advertising a motor show. </p><p>‘I wonder how he knows I like cars,’ Arthur says halfway through dessert, which is when Hermione confesses they’ve been writing regularly and Malfoy asked her what Arthur might like from the Muggle world.</p><p>‘I got a letter too,’ Ginny confesses, and then blushes when Harry stares at her. ‘Sorry, Harry. I just know, well, how you are about Malfoy.’</p><p><em>I’m not like that anymore</em>, Harry wants to say. He’s not obsessed. He doesn’t think Malfoy’s up to something. He just wants to give Malfoy’s wand back. </p><p>He’s a little upset, though, that everyone seems to have received a lovely letter from lovely Malfoy, and he’s still wandering around like an idiot trying to find that posh little git. </p><p>‘Maybe he doesn’t know what to say to you,’ Luna tells him, when Harry meets her for coffee. </p><p>She was one of the first to receive a letter. It arrived with a bouquet of white orchids and a box of Turkish delight - which Luna adores. They’ve been writing to each other almost every day, and Luna usually offers to visit Malfoy’s apartment to clear it of Nargles. Malfoy always declines, though.</p><p>‘Why wouldn’t he know what to say to me?’ Harry asks her.</p><p>Luna sips at her coconut-milk mocha and frowns slightly. ‘You’re special to him, Harry,’ she says. ‘It can be a little hard to write to someone important. Your feelings get all tangled up like string, and you have to spend time by yourself picking apart the knots and winding it all up neatly again.’</p><p>Malfoy’s letter finally arrives on the day that Harry qualifies as an Auror. It comes with a box of chocolates, wrapped up with red and gold ribbons and with a card that reads: <em>Do try not to get killed playing hero, Potter</em>.</p><p>The letter, of course, is beautiful.</p><p>-</p><p>Brussels in the evening is the very picture of loveliness. Golden light spills over the damp cobblestones of the square as the summer evening settles in, the sky shifting into a deep violet. Laughter drifts from the outdoor seating of a restaurant, and somewhere far off Harry can hear the faint strains of a violin. He dodges the heavy foot traffic as he hurries across the square.</p><p>Draco’s mother has settled down in Paris - it reminds her of happier times, apparently - but Draco prefers Brussels. The Statute is interpreted a little differently in Belgium than it is in France. It’s a small country, and many of its cities were built long before the Statute of Secrecy came into inception. Buildings are made of stones that are magical and mundane, and the Muggle laws strictly prohibit any alteration, so the wizarding world sits right on top of the Muggle world - sometimes literally.</p><p>Draco’s apartment sits right on top of a Muggle chocolaterie. Harry <em>loves </em>it. It’s a glorious thing to wake up to the smell of warm chocolate drifting up through the floorboards. Harry squeezes through the packed shop, shouting a hurried <em>salut! </em>at the owner before heading through a door marked STAFF ONLY and hurrying up the back stairs. </p><p>The apartment opens with a tap of Harry’s wand, and he waves the door shut behind him with his hand. The wards kick in and the apartment comes alive, spells activating as soon as Harry’s feet step over the threshold. The fireplace roars to life, and all the lights wink on. Harry sets his suitcase down by the door, hangs up his coat, and toes off his shoes, as he’s done in each of Draco’s homes countless times.</p><p>Harry takes a deep breath. ‘Just a precaution,’ he mutters to himself, and casts a Stasis charm on the apartment. </p><p>Even though the apartment is quiet and empty, this place feels so very Draco, from the eggshell blue of the walls to the pale, polished wood of the floorboards and the sprawling rugs underfoot. Botanical drawings hang in simple frames from the walls. The bookshelves are crammed with a collection of Muggle and magical books, some old and leather-bound, others cheap paperbacks with cracked spines. A generous-sized desk is placed next to the curtainless windows -<em> Draco prefers to work with natural light</em> - and various charms dangle along the windowpane, glinting and sparkling slightly. Harry recognizes them as the ones Luna sends Draco each time he moves into a new place. </p><p>There is an unfinished letter on the desk, secured beneath a moonstone paperweight. </p><p><em>Dear Harry,</em> it begins, <em>it appears I must visit my mother wearing shirt-sleeves, lest I expire from heat stroke while sipping her ginger tea and making all the necessary pure-blood pleasantries</em>.<em> Mother will have Opinions about the matter, I’m sure.</em> </p><p>A white peacock-feather quill lies next to the letter, alongside an ink blotter, all laid out in preparation for the completion of the letter.  </p><p>In the kitchen, there is water in the kettle, and the tin of earl grey is half-empty. The cupboards are still full of food. A bouquet of dried lavender and feather grass leans in a tall, green bottle on the dining table, and a stack of letters are placed neatly at its side. </p><p>Harry moves onto the bedroom. Draco’s suitcase is still on top of his wardrobe, and his clothes are all hanging neatly inside. A dog-eared book is perched on the bedside table, a ribboned bookmark peeping out from its pages. A peep in the en-suite confirms that Draco’s toothbrush is still there, along with his home-made, incredibly fancy hair potions. </p><p>Harry wanders back into the living room, casting his gaze around the apartment once more. Everything is orderly, but not in the way that a home looks when the owner is on vacation. It’s like Draco just vanished into thin air.</p><p>‘Fuck,’ Harry says to the empty apartment. ‘He <em>is</em> missing.’</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm thinking we'll probably get to read Draco's lovely letter to Harry in the interlude. (she says, as though she's formulated any sort of plan for the structure)<br/>This is a happy ending fic, I promise, but we're about to leave the gentle fluffy hints and get into the gritty stuff. I might have to change my tags. We'll see.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. reunion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ Harry says, and realises it’s the truth.<br/>Malfoy tilts his head slightly as he studies Harry carefully. His eyes are so pale they might have no colour at all.  ‘You are?’<br/>‘Yeah,’ Harry replies, picking up his mug. ‘It makes me feel like he didn’t win, you know? You and me sitting here, talking like normal people - it feels like spitting in his face somehow.’<br/>Malfoy’s smile is a vicious, delightful thing. ‘That it does.’</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The apartment needs to remain under Stasis, so Harry checks into a nearby hotel. He barely tastes the complimentary breakfast in the morning, throwing the tasteless coffee back as he frowns at his haphazard notes. </p>
<p><em>I must visit my mother</em>, the letter said - but Harry likes to cast a wide net before he starts following any leads properly. </p>
<p>Harry traverses the city to Draco’s potions shop, moving purely based on muscle memory. Cosmic Remedy is a quaint little place in the wizarding quarter, with enormous, art-nouveau display windows framed in creamy-white panels. Draco’s trademark green bottles line the windows, a bouquet of magical and non-magical plants and flowers placed in each bottle. Posters illustrated in full colour back the display, advertising hair-loss remedies and cures for chronic aches and pains and caffeine-free wakefulness. A life-size mannequin holds up a bottle overflowing with white roses and honeysuckle to its blank, featureless face, as pink peonies explode out of the mannequin’s dress. <em>Bienvenue! </em>is printed in white across the glass panel on the front door, and directly underneath, in smaller letters: <em>Welkom! Willkommen! Welcome!</em></p>
<p>An invisible bell chimes softly as Harry pushes it open and steps into the shop. </p>
<p>The first floor is only the waiting room - Draco makes all his potions to-order after his clients discuss their requirements with him. The stairs are round the back and can only be accessed with a password. There are a few comfortable-looking benches and a number of plain, understated armchairs resting around the room. There are flowers everywhere, and the air smells like spring. </p>
<p>Harry spots Draco’s assistant, Michelle, sitting behind the counter at the back of the shop. She looks up from her work, her eyes widening as she sees Harry approach. </p>
<p>‘Professor!’ Michelle exclaims, rising from her seat and flinging her arms out dramatically. ‘You are here!’</p>
<p>Harry lets her grab at him and plant a kiss on either cheek, her perfume drifting over him and mingling with the scent of all Draco’s flowers blooming. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he tells her. ‘You’re looking as wonderful as ever.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, stop,’ Michelle laughs. She purses her lips as she sweeps her gaze over him. ‘Ah, so handsome.’</p>
<p>Harry gestures for her to sit back down. ‘Please.’</p>
<p>‘And so polite,’ Michelle praises, wiping her ruby-red lipstick off his face with a thumb. She towers a good three inches over Harry, dark-haired and outrageously stunning for a witch her age. Sometimes she feels a little larger than life. ‘You are my favourite boy. I love it when you come visit.’</p>
<p>Harry shifts uncomfortably. ‘About that,’ he frowns. ‘Have you seen Draco recently?’</p>
<p>Michelle’s expression darkens immediately. </p>
<p>‘Well,’ she says, ‘he was here on Friday. Everything was normal. But he did not come on Tuesday morning.’ She shakes her head. ‘I called his phone, but he did not answer. Then, Wednesday, I called the Bureau to report him a missing person,’ she adds, her voice rising in volume and pitch, ‘hoping they will help.’</p>
<p>Harry nods along with her story, encouraging her to continue.</p>
<p>‘<em>Mais non</em>,’ Michelle continues, flicking a manicured hand outward in disgust. ‘Instead they come and raid the shop, looking for evidence of Dark Magic. They ask questions and say Draco has been brewing illegal potions. My Draco? Pah! It is outrageous,’ she declares. ‘I cannot take this - I will protest.’</p>
<p>Harry distantly recalls the last time Michelle <em>protested</em>. Someone at the Bureau claimed that Draco didn’t have the appropriate paperwork for his rarer ingredients, which was laughable, of course, considering how many weeks Michelle and Draco had spent filling in forms and owling at least five different departments before they finally got the approvals in. Michelle descended upon the accuser with more righteous fury than all the archangels in heaven. </p>
<p>‘Did Draco tell you where he was going on Friday?’ Harry asks, hoping to distract the middle-aged witch from her tirade.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ Michelle exclaims, snapping her fingers. ‘That’s a good <em>idée. </em>Yes. He visits his mother in Paris during the weekend - he gives me the forwarding address for urgent matters.’ She scribbles it down on a card and hands it over to Harry. ‘I have not tried contacting Mrs. Malfoy yet. Perhaps the Bureau has?’</p>
<p>‘Perhaps the Bureau hasn’t,’ Harry replies wryly. </p>
<p>He knows for a fact that no one’s bothered to actually ask what Draco gets up to, otherwise they would already know that their supposed dangerous Death Eater is actually a man who makes bottled remedies for daily woes, volunteers at a Muggle cat shelter, and visits his ageing mother on the weekend. </p>
<p>‘Ah,’ says Michelle, arching a perfectly pencilled brow. ‘<em>Quelle surprise.</em>’</p>
<p>Harry hums in agreement. ‘Right, thank you very much,’ he says. ‘That was actually really quite helpful.’ He presses a kiss onto her powdered cheek. ‘<em>A bientôt</em>, Michelle. Remember, it’s illegal to send Howlers to the Bureau.’ </p>
<p>Michelle flashes Harry a winning smile. ‘Of course, Professor,’ she purrs. ‘Good luck in Paris.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Harry’s about halfway through his patrol down Diagon Alley when he realises he’s out of Dittany. Ever since the Dartmouth incident, when Ron got hit on the arm with a severing curse mid-duel and nearly bled to death, Harry’s made it a point to keep some on his person at all times. He spots Goldren’s Potions ahead of him on his route, so he decides to drop in and restock.</p>
<p>It’s a little later on in the afternoon, so thankfully the shop is nearly empty. Harry’s a good sport about the whole Saviour nonsense - he shows up to benefits and kisses babies and signs autographs and gives speeches - but he does get a bit prickly after the tenth person tries to talk to him while he’s getting his groceries. Thankfully, nobody stops him as he makes his way through the colourful shelves towards the counter.</p>
<p>The shop assistant is crouched behind the counter, unpacking something out of boxes. Harry glimpses a navy-blue, cable knit sweater and a shock of white-blond hair.</p>
<p>‘Three travel-sized bottles of Dittany please,’ Harry says. ‘Oh, and I won’t need a bag.’ </p>
<p>The shop assistant stands up, a jar of preserved newt eyes cradled in his hands, and Harry’s eyes widen as he recognizes him.</p>
<p>‘Malfoy!’ Harry exclaims, grinning like a loon. ‘It’s been ages! How’ve you been?’</p>
<p>‘Potter.’ Malfoy smiles at Harry, the motion softening his sharp features. </p>
<p>‘You look good,’ Harry says, because he really does.</p>
<p>Malfoy looks completely different from when Harry last saw him. His hair curls slightly over his temples and behind his ears, and his cheeks are flushed a blotchy pink from the heat of the shop. The ever-present bruises under his eyes from sixth year are gone. He’s dressed in startlingly Muggle clothes - sweater and sensible jeans - and though he’s still on the thin side, he no longer looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over. </p>
<p>‘Thank you,’ Malfoy replies, setting the jar of eyes down on the counter. ‘I’ve been helping out here in exchange for curse damage treatment. I can’t do any brewing yet, on account of the tremors, but it’s as good as an apprenticeship.’ He frowns as he studies Harry. ‘You look tired.’ </p>
<p>‘Yeah, well,’ Harry forces a grin. ‘Life as an Auror. Guess there’ll be time to sleep when I’m dead.’ </p>
<p>‘How very ominous of you,’ Malfoy remarks. ‘You wanted three travel-sized bottles of Dittany, yes?’</p>
<p>‘Please,’ says Harry. He leans on the counter, resting his elbow on the polished surface as he watches Malfoy pluck the small bottles off a shelf behind the counter. He wonders how long Malfoy’s been working here, and why they haven’t stumbled across each other before today - then remembers that he usually picks up his potions from the Ministry store, because Ron’s penny-pinching ways are now ingrained in him.</p>
<p>Malfoy’s hands still tremble slightly as he works, but he punches the numbers into the cash register with practiced ease. He doesn’t even wince when Harry drops the galleons into his palm, doesn’t fumble once when he hands over the small, hand-labelled bottles.</p>
<p> ‘Here’s your Dittany, Potter,’ he says. ‘Please don’t give yourself an occasion to use it.’</p>
<p>‘Well, we’re only patrolling the shopping district,’ Harry says with a shrug. ‘I sincerely doubt we’re going to be seeing much action.’</p>
<p>Malfoy’s eyebrows arch. They’re a few shades darker than the shocking colour of his hair, but lighter than his lashes. Harry has no idea why he’s noticing these details now.</p>
<p>‘Are you on patrol right now, Potter?’ he asks Harry.</p>
<p>‘Yeah,’ Harry frowns. He should really get back to it. Ron will have his arse when he finds out Harry’s been slacking.</p>
<p>But Malfoy’s right here - lovely Malfoy who writes lovely letters - and Harry feels like he’s been chasing the shape of Malfoy for years, tracing the imprint that he leaves in Harry’s life, as though that will somehow explain how he feels every time he reads that letter. He doesn’t want to just pay and leave and then never see Malfoy again.</p>
<p>Harry hums and bounces his fist on the counter. ‘I tell you what,’ he says, pointing at Malfoy, ‘I’m done with my shift at six. Will you be free by then?’</p>
<p>‘I’m done at six-thirty,’ Malfoy replies.</p>
<p>‘Alright,’ Harry nods. That gives him ample time to Apparate to Grimmauld Place, change out of his robes, and pop back here. ‘Fancy a pint?’</p>
<p>Malfoy stares at him with an expression of faint bemusement. ‘I can’t drink,’ he says. ‘Alcohol interferes with my potions.’</p>
<p>Harry’s stomach does a swan dive into his feet. ‘Alright,’ he says, trying not to sound too defeated. ‘Maybe some other time.’</p>
<p>‘I didn’t say I wasn’t free, Potter,’ Malfoy says with a small smile. Harry knows Malfoy’s laughing at him, but it doesn’t get his blood boiling the way it used to. ‘Come by at six-thirty.’</p>
<p>Harry tries not to grin too widely. ‘Brilliant.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Apparently, it takes a whole day to arrange an international portkey to Paris, so Harry takes the afternoon train. When he was working for the Aurors, he could never do this sort of thing - slip effortlessly between his two worlds. They can be purists about this sort of thing, even if there’s no threat of breaching the Statute at all.</p>
<p>Harry flips through his book as the cities and towns and fields fly past. Draco gave it to Harry on his twenty-fifth birthday as something of a joke - <em>Chocolat - </em>but Harry loves the twist of magic and reality, the juxtaposition of death, destruction and love. Draco calls him a morbid little bastard for it, but since then he’s sent Harry nearly every other Joanne Harris novel, each copy beautifully bound and autographed.</p>
<p>Paris is magnificent, as always. Every glittering part of the city demands attention - although this was what Draco didn’t like about it. It felt too reminiscent of his childhood, and to Draco, those memories are tainted by Lucius’s long shadow. </p>
<p>It’s too late by any measure of polite society to call on Narcissa, so Harry wanders aimlessly through the streets of Paris, lost to reminiscing. </p>
<p>Harry used to come on holidays here with Draco, back when they were still reckless and young and eager to experience as much of the world as possible. Harry had never really been anywhere before, and Draco - well. Draco had never been to Muggle France, and he wanted to see all of it.</p>
<p>Their first trip mostly involved standing in queues. They queued to go up the Eiffel Tower, passing the time by chatting about Draco’s bizarre obsession with the mechanics of the Starship Enterprise. They queued in the snow to visit the Louvre, and for Notre Dame, and for the Musée d’Orsay. They stood in line for a whole hour in the muggy heat, waiting to get into the Palace of Versailles, before the heavens opened. Nobody else around them understood why two young men would find torrential rain quite so funny, but then they probably never lived in a world where getting rained on is a choice.</p>
<p>Paris is a place that unfolds slowly, revealing secret compartments only after you’ve unlocked everything else and fallen a little in love with what you find there. Perhaps there’s some magic in that, the kind that Muggles talk about, not the practical kind that Harry uses when he’s cleaning his dishes or fixing his broken glasses. </p>
<p>They had a favourite place - a small, charming Italian restaurant - that they would go to after a long day wandering up and down streets and dropping into bookshops and cafes and galleries. There’s some irony in having Italian food in Paris, but it really was the best place to sit and watch the world go by - with large, curved windows that would open in the summer, so Draco could smoke without having to sit outside. They also had really, really good coffee.</p>
<p>Harry finds himself wandering into their restaurant, mostly out of habit, and orders his usual from a young waiter he doesn’t recognize. It’s really been years since he’s been to Paris, and though the bones of the city haven’t changed much, everything else has. He sits at the small circular table, watching the pedestrians hurry home as he feels a hollow in his heart that grows and grows and grows because he knows that he can only linger in memories for so long before he finds himself courting ghosts, and he promised Draco he would stop doing that.</p>
<p>So he finishes his espresso and gets up, striding out into the street. Above him, the colour of the sky deepens and Paris is aglow with silver and gold.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Harry stares at the glowing sign hanging above the tall, glass door, wondering if he’s managed to fall into some alternative universe where Draco-sodding-Malfoy frequents Muggle coffee chains.</p>
<p>‘<em>Costa’s</em>?’ he utters.</p>
<p>‘Yes, well.’ Malfoy sighs heavily. ‘I’m not exactly welcome in most wizarding establishments. And they do a good chai latte here.’ </p>
<p>They push into the shop, marvelling at the sudden rush of warmth after the biting cold outside. It’s not terribly busy, but there’s a bit of a wait as they stand in line to order their drinks. Harry squints at the menu while they wait, before giving up and pulling off his glasses to wipe them clean. It’s a bit of a bother not being able to just spell them clean, but he can hardly do that in a room full of Muggles.</p>
<p> ‘Have you tried the chocolate?’ he asks Malfoy lightly.</p>
<p>‘Potter, you really should watch that sweet tooth of yours,’ Malfoy drawls.</p>
<p>Harry pushes his glasses back on and nudges Malfoy lightly with his elbow. ‘Not for me,’ he grins.  ‘For you.’</p>
<p>Malfoy rolls his eyes, but lets Harry order him an overly festive hot chocolate anyways. He pays for the both of them, expertly leafing through the coloured banknotes as though he never pranced around school hissing slurs at Muggle-born students. In his cable knit sweater and worn-out jeans, he looks like one of them. He talks like them too, ordering smoothly and flashing the staff a courteous smile before picking up the little sign with their table number. He even gets up to grab their drinks, but Harry waves him off, nodding pointedly at Malfoy’s hands. </p>
<p>‘How do you have Muggle money?’ Harry asks when he gets back, more out of curiosity than anything.</p>
<p>‘I work at a bookstore on days I’m not at Goldren’s,’ Malfoy replies. ‘And sometimes I pick up hours bartending. It pays the rent. Keeps me fed. And I don’t have to deal with, you know, the general aversion and disgust people have towards me.’ He gestures at his forearm, where the Mark is hidden under his clothes. ‘As far as the Muggles are concerned, this is just a tacky tattoo.’</p>
<p>Harry sips at his drink while he lets that information digest. ‘Are you happy?’ he asks.</p>
<p>‘Is this your attempt at small talk? You’re abysmal at this.’ Malfoy leans forwards and the light catches in his eyes. He’s so damn pretty, all silver and white-gold, soft and sharp all at once. </p>
<p>‘I haven’t really had much practice,’ Harry shrugs. ‘There was always stuff going on that was more important.’</p>
<p>‘By <em>stuff</em>, of course, you mean the Dark Lord trying to murder you on an annual, semi-annual basis,’ Malfoy said dryly, tilting his head to each side in emphasis.</p>
<p>Harry nearly coughs up his latte.</p>
<p>‘It’s called gallows humour,’ Malfoy sighed, passing Harry a napkin. ‘My therapist says it’s a coping mechanism.’</p>
<p>‘Your what?’</p>
<p>‘Therapist,’ Malfoy repeats, giving him a long-suffering look that is disturbingly reminiscent of Hermione. ‘That’s Muggle for Mind Healer. She’s really quite good.’</p>
<p>‘How much does she know about what happened?’ Harry asks, setting down his mug. </p>
<p>‘I’m vague, usually,’ Malfoy explains, ‘and she connects the dots herself. As far as she’s concerned, my parents were part of a racist cult. She knows I was tortured, and that I was forced to participate in cult activities. She doesn’t know about the magic, obviously.’</p>
<p>Harry frowns briefly. He can’t imagine sitting down and actually talking about any of it to someone. He’s always just hunkered down and powered through the worst of it. Maybe that’s not the wisest approach. Maybe he still wakes up in the middle of the night with horrible nightmares. Maybe sometimes Ginny makes him sleep in their guest bedroom when he’s having a difficult week because she can’t sleep for his screaming - but they’ve gotten through so much worse, during the war. They’ll get through it.</p>
<p>‘Does it help?’ Harry asks anyways.</p>
<p>Malfoy taps his fingers on his mug. He picks up his spoon and scoops up a bit of whipped cream and half-melted marshmallow. ‘I think it does,’ he says to the spoon. ‘Some days are just… grey. Heavy. But other days I feel almost human,’ he adds, looking back up at Harry, ‘and I can enjoy a latte in a mediocre cafe and I’m mostly grateful that I’m alive to revel in the mundanity of it all.’</p>
<p>Malfoy punctuates his declaration by shoving the spoonful of whipped cream and marshmallows into his mouth. A tiny bit of whipped cream clings to the corner of his mouth, and it stays there for a while until Malfoy takes another spoonful, and wipes at his mouth with a napkin. </p>
<p>It feels a little bit like whiplash, to see Malfoy all rumpled and messy and normal, like when the plastic stickers come off a brand-new television. He was always so shiny as a child, with his polished shoes and neat robes and greasy, slicked-back hair. </p>
<p>‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ Harry says, and realises it’s the truth.</p>
<p>Malfoy tilts his head slightly as he studies Harry carefully. His eyes are so pale they might have no colour at all.  ‘You are?’</p>
<p>‘Yeah,’ Harry replies, picking up his mug. ‘It makes me feel like he didn’t win, you know? You and me sitting here, talking like normal people - it feels like spitting in his face somehow.’</p>
<p>Malfoy’s smile is a vicious, delightful thing. ‘That it does.’</p>
<p>They talk for a little while. Harry finds out that Malfoy’s still got one year left without magic, but that he’d rather get a new wand than take back the one Harry won from him. Apparently his therapist thinks he shouldn’t keep any personal effects that were given to him by the ‘religious cult’ - which is why Malfoy is dressed so very Muggle.</p>
<p>Malfoy tells him about his cat, Artemis, that he picked up at a Muggle animal shelter. He’s got pictures in his wallet, and he shows each of the tiny polaroids to Harry with a look of paternal pride that makes Harry laugh so hard he nearly cries. (Artemis is a very beautiful cat, of course.) </p>
<p>Harry, in turn, tells Malfoy about taming Grimmauld Place, about his valiant efforts to compromise with Kreacher regarding housework, about how much he hates six-day work weeks, but it’s nice because it’s sort of pushed him and Ginny to move in together, which is great because Harry’s pretty certain he wants to be with her forever and a forever is nice after <em>all that nonsense with Riddle and his oversized snake</em>. (This last comment makes Malfoy snort with very un-aristocratic laughter, and Harry feels extremely pleased with himself.)</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t tell Malfoy about the other parts of his life that are in shambles. </p>
<p>He doesn’t tell Malfoy about the way he can’t sleep anymore, or that he sometimes loses his temper with the people that he loves, that sometimes Ginny says something careless when they’re bickering and it digs under Harry’s skin like a poisonous barb, and he has to go somewhere quiet and just wait for all that anger to boil away. He doesn’t tell Malfoy that, since he died in the Forbidden Forest, he’s not quite so afraid of death anymore and maybe that’s a bad thing, because sometimes when he’s on the hunt he feels like a weapon instead of a person but he kind of likes the emptiness of it all, except when it’s all done and he’s back in his cubicle with a stack of paperwork all he can think about is the way that a curse just tastes different to say out loud, so he spends his sleepless nights learning how to do them all wordlessly.</p>
<p>He wants to sit here, in this coffee shop with its sticky tables and terrible lighting, and he wants to look at Malfoy. Malfoy, who cracks jokes about death and torture, who likes to drink chai lattes and works in a Muggle bookshop, who dresses in loose sweaters and rolls his jeans up at the cuffs, who is soft and strange and new and hopeful.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>After Goldren’s Potions, it’s as though a dam has burst, and suddenly Malfoy is everywhere. </p>
<p>Harry runs into him when he stops by Hermione’s office to invite her to lunch. He even sees Malfoy on the Tube when he finds the time in his hectic schedule to venture into Muggle London. He turns up for coffee with Luna to find Malfoy already sitting there, drinking his hot coffee with a straw and looking miserable about the whole affair, and Harry really hates seeing Malfoy this unhappy so he transfigures his coaster into a straw and drinks his latte with a straw too, which is admittedly disgusting but at least it makes Malfoy laugh so hard he snorts his coffee through his nose. </p>
<p>Harry drops by the Burrow for dinner on a weeknight to find Malfoy already there, wedged between Ginny and Ron. At some point in the night, Molly shoves Malfoy into one of her handmade sweaters. It’s cornflower blue, which Harry has to admit suits him ridiculously well, and it makes him look like someone who grew up in a warm, overcrowded house instead of a cold, empty manor.</p>
<p>They take a walk together afterwards by the duck pond to walk off the effects of Molly’s overfeeding. Malfoy points out the constellations for Narcissa, Andromeda, Remus and Sirius. Harry points out the shimmering stars that form Malfoy’s namesake, which makes Malfoy stare at him long and hard like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.</p>
<p>And then there’s Sundays at Andromeda’s. The first time it’s an accident - Harry’s just leaving as Malfoy walks in the door - but after that it becomes a regular thing. </p>
<p>They’re having tea in the conservatory one sunny Autumn day, when Malfoy’s potion wears off and his hands start shaking so violently, he has to give up on his tea. Harry hates the way Malfoy’s expression changes, the way his eyes shutter and his body curls in on itself, as though remembering the agony of the curses that left such lasting damage. </p>
<p>‘Isn’t the treatment working?’ Andromeda asks anxiously. ‘Should we find you a Healer instead?’</p>
<p>‘He’s actually much better than he used to be,’ Harry tells Andromeda. He picks up Malfoy’s cup carefully and taps his wand against the porcelain rim. He waits until the spell takes, feeling the minute vibrations spread throughout the small cup, before handing it back to Malfoy. </p>
<p>‘The potions I’m on help a lot, but it’ll be three years left before I’m back to normal,’ Malfoy says, taking the cup from Harry. His wrist twists, and the cup tilts in the opposite direction. His eyebrows climb his forehead as he stares down at the undisturbed tea. ‘I say, Potter, that’s an impressive stabilizing charm. Weren’t you terrible at Charms?’</p>
<p>‘Yeah, and school in general,’ Harry laughs. ‘I was a bit distracted, I guess. Basilisks, dementors, werewolves, Barty Crouch Jr’s dastardly plans.’ He puts his wand back in its holster. ‘That kind of stuff screws with your grades a little.’</p>
<p>Malfoy smiles crookedly. ‘One would presume so,’ he replies. His voice is soft, his accent polishing each word. ‘Though I might find it a little hard to believe you’ve suddenly turned into a magical genius overnight simply because you’re less distracted by the constant threat to life and limb, seeing as being under constant threat is sort of your occupation these days. But, well. <em>La vie est toujours pleine de surprises.</em>’ </p>
<p>Harry wishes he could talk like that, smooth and clever. He could use it in his mind-numbing meetings with the Minister of Magic. </p>
<p>‘What does that mean?’ he asks. ‘La vie whatsit?’</p>
<p>Malfoy sips his tea, his eyes dancing with wicked amusement. ‘You’ll have to figure that one out by yourself,’ he tells Harry. ‘Or suffer in your delightful ignorance. Either way, do let me know which you’ve decided on.’</p>
<p>A week later, with the help of a pensieve and a magical dictionary, Harry does figure it out. He storms in on Malfoy and Andromeda having their lunch, waving a box of truffles threateningly at Malfoy’s smug head.</p>
<p>‘<em>Life is full of surprises</em>?’ Harry exclaims, shaking the box at Malfoy. ‘Really? You couldn’t have just <em>told</em> me that’s what it meant?’</p>
<p>‘Would you like some tea, Harry?’ Andromeda asks calmly. </p>
<p>‘Are those for me?’ Malfoy asks, gesturing at the truffles. He never points - it’s weird and polite and charming and Harry could watch his strange little mannerisms for the rest of his life, probably. </p>
<p>‘Yes,’ Harry frowns. ‘To share with Teddy. Don’t change the topic. Why didn’t you just tell me what it meant?’</p>
<p>‘Watching your valiant struggle with the most mundane of tasks never ceases to entertain me,’ Malfoy replies, reaching out for the box of chocolates. His hand spasms and he winces, but soon his expression melts into something lighter, more playful. ‘And the correct translation is life is <em>always</em> full of surprises.’ </p>
<p>‘Prat,’ Harry says without venom. He drops into the chair next to Malfoy and holds out his hand. ‘Let me see.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, if you must,’ Malfoy sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. He sets his wrist in Harry’s grip, turning his palm skyward. ‘I don’t know why you insist on this ritual every time we meet. It’s really quite tedious.’</p>
<p>From across the table, Andromeda smiles at her boys fondly. ‘I’ll go see if Teddy’s ready to wake up,’ she announces, and glides off into the other room.</p>
<p>Hermione taught Harry the diagnostic spells a while ago. The twitching is only one of the side effects of curse damage. If Malfoy is having a bad day, he can end up passing out - as Harry had to witness one particular evening playing with Teddy in the garden. Malfoy was fine one minute, then flat on his back the next. </p>
<p>These days Harry makes sure he has a pocket full of Pepper-Up potions and smelling salts in case that ever happens again, and he makes sure to cast the diagnostic spell on Malfoy each time they see each other. He wishes he could ease the tight coil in his chest, but Malfoy looked so fragile, lying there on the grass with his lips so pale they were bone-white. </p>
<p>Harry presses his thumb and forefinger on Malfoy’s pulse, and then begins waving his wand in the first of many complex motions. Colours dance over the other man’s body in ribbons of light. Vivid green curls around his wrists and shoulders, and a necklace of scarlet winds around his neck. Bright crimson slashes over Malfoy’s forearm, where the ugly bruise of the Dark Mark sits beneath his sweater.</p>
<p>Harry glances up at Malfoy. ‘It still hurts?’</p>
<p>Malfoy looks down at his arm. ‘It always hurts,’ he replies softly. ‘He cuts a piece of you open and sticks a curse there, makes it bind with your flesh and bone and soul. Some nights I can feel it worming its way into my blood, waiting for its master to yank on my leash.’</p>
<p>‘I’m so sorry,’ Harry whispers. The bones in Malfoy’s wrist feel as delicate as a bird’s wing in his grasp.</p>
<p>Malfoy looks up at Harry, his grey eyes burning. ‘I don’t think I will ever find a way to forgive my father for this,’ he says. ‘I begged him. Pleaded, even. And still, he offered me up to the Dark Lord like chattel. He let them put that <em>thing</em> inside of me, let it spread its sickness inside of me. He wanted me there in the darkness with him.’ </p>
<p>Malfoy turns his hand over, his long fingers encircling Harry’s wrist. The lights dancing over his body shudder out of existence, the spell coming to a close.</p>
<p>‘You have to mean it for a Cruciatus Curse to work,’ he says after a while, his voice low and quiet. ‘You have to want the victim to suffer. My father only ever tortured me when he was ordered to, but, Circe, he did it so <em>effectively</em> that even my Aunt Bellatrix was impressed.’ Malfoy smiles thinly. ‘I hope he dies in Azkaban.’</p>
<p>Harry looks at Malfoy and thinks about a cupboard under the stairs, about bars on bedroom windows, and comes to the realization that perhaps they might have more in common than he’d ever known. </p>
<p>‘You know what?’ Harry says. ‘Me too.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Harry lies in the dark, staring up at the ceiling of his hotel room, and tries not to get sucked into the spiral of his thoughts.</p>
<p>He’s read the Auror reports three times. Unspeakable Zabini owled them directly to him after their meeting in Harry’s classroom. The leads are solid - Lucius <em>is </em>in Brussels. </p>
<p>And Draco is missing.</p>
<p>Harry feels a sickening lurch in his stomach. He sits up and braces his palms on his knees, breathing deeply until his ribs creak with the effort.</p>
<p>He knows every last awful thing Lucius did to Draco during the war. He knows what Lucius did before the war, too, the subtler methods of breaking a child apart, ways that are easy to hide if you have enough money and power. Harry’s seen the other scars on Draco’s body, and it makes him so angry sometimes he thinks there isn’t enough space in his body for that kind of rage. He’s listened as Draco listed all the things his father has called him. Draco's voice was so quiet as he recited them, his eyes glassy, and Harry yearned to reach through time to gather that small, frightened child up in his arms and promise him, <em>no, you’re not a freak, you’re not worthless, you’re not a disappointment to anyone, you are beautiful and kind and brave and smart and so many people will love you for it that they’ll fill up a whole house just to help you blow out your birthday candles.</em></p>
<p>Harry clasps his hands behind the base of his skull and closes his eyes, fighting against the burning in his chest. He breathes in and out, in and out, the way his Mind Healer taught him. </p>
<p>If the Aurors are right - if Lucius somehow got to Draco - </p>
<p>Harry has to find him.</p>
<p>He has to find Draco before it’s too late.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I miss Europe, can you tell?<br/>Maybe I should call this fic 'Looking for Malfoy' because that's all we're going to be doing in the next few chapters</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. pansy fucking parkinson</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>‘I can’t change our past,’ Draco tells Harry, ‘no matter how much I want to. But,’ he adds, his voice taking on a hard, determined tone, ‘you’re not going to be a tragedy. I’m not going to be a tragedy. We’re going to have everything, Harry. Just you wait and see.’</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Narcissa isn’t quite as adventurous as Draco when it comes to Muggle Paris. She rents out a beautiful flat in the wizarding quarter, further outside of the city. Harry’s been there a total of three times. He’s grateful that Narcissa saved his life, but he’s not exactly on friendly terms with her.</p><p>Draco’s impressed upon Harry the importance of never showing up empty-handed, so Harry picks up a bouquet of  peonies and a box of lavender macarons before Apparating directly to Narcissa’s front door. He rings the doorbell and steps back, tucking the macarons under his arm and readjusting his grip on the flowers. They still need some time before they bloom properly, but an afternoon in some water will do the trick just fine.</p><p>‘Who is it?’ calls a muffled voice from within.</p><p>‘It’s Harry, Narcissa,’ he calls back. ‘Harry Potter.’</p><p>He hears a slight shuffling, a soft murmur, and then a series of sharp clicks sound out as the locks on the door spell open. The door pulls open to reveal Narcissa, looking a little paler than usual but every bit as beautiful as when Harry first saw her. She seems to freeze in the doorway as she stares at Harry.</p><p>He holds out the macarons and flowers and smiles apologetically. ‘I know I should have owled,’ he says, ‘but I was in Paris and I thought it would be nice to drop by and see how you were.’</p><p>Narcissa blinks, and nods slowly. ‘Well, Mr. Potter,’ she says, her voice soft and light. ‘You may as well come in. It’s a nice day for entertaining guests.’</p><p>
  <em>Guests.</em>
</p><p>Harry isn’t sure what to expect. As he follows Narcissa down the short, carpeted hallway towards the living room, his mind races through the options. He hopes it’s Draco. It can’t be Lucius - this building has a million wards on it ensuring that no one with a criminal magical signature can get through. Harry briefly entertains the wild idea that it might be Teddy, but he knows Teddy is halfway across the world doing his apprenticeship. </p><p>The last person he expects to see sitting on Narcissa’s settee, with her ankles neatly crossed neatly like she’s visiting royalty, is Pansy fucking Parkinson. </p><p>-</p><p>The first time Harry sees Pansy Parkinson after the war is at Malfoy’s end-of-parole party.</p><p>She really shouldn’t fit in Malfoy’s apartment. It’s too Muggle, too cosy and warm and a little run-down, and it smells like flowers and herbs and there’s usually a bowl of satsumas on the coffee table because Hermione’s been craving them since she got pregnant. And the way she looks tonight, she really <em>shouldn’t</em>, dressed in a sleek black dress and stockings, her bob so sharp it looks like it might actually cut someone, in a pair of heels that look painful to walk in, but somehow it works next to Luna’s buttercup-yellow pantsuit.</p><p>She spends the first half of the night sitting on Malfoy’s lap, sipping from a bottle of vodka and whispering in his ear. Malfoy’s still on curse-damage potions, but he’s been given a potion that supposedly imitates the effects of being pleasantly tipsy, and it seems to be working, because every time he catches Harry’s eye across the room he bursts into a fit of giggles. Hermione’s off the booze and potions so she’s attacking the satsumas with great ferocity. Ron’s sprawled on the rug, trying to explain the rules of a drinking game to Luna as she taps her wand on his t-shirt in rapid succession, changing its colours in rhythm with his speech. Ginny is lovely and warm as she curls up next to Harry on the sofa. They share a bout of stifled laughter when Luna runs out of colours and graduates to patterns instead, and Ron somehow still doesn’t notice. </p><p>It feels a little bit like being back at Hogwarts, only without the bullying and hexing, but Harry’s not sure he’s happy with that. This is Malfoy’s party. He should be sitting at the centre of it, not off to the side. But he doesn’t say anything, and enjoys the gentle buzz of alcohol as it overtakes him and makes all the sharp edges of the world smooth and lovely.  </p><p>‘Pansy, no,’ says Malfoy rather suddenly.</p><p>They all look over in time to see Pansy downing half a bottle of vodka. She screws the lid shut, hands the bottle over to Draco, and stands up. ‘Pansy, <em>yes</em>,’ she says, and strides into the centre of the room, her stilettos clicking loudly against the floorboards. ‘Weasley!’ </p><p>Both Ginny and Ron look at her.</p><p>‘Male Weasley,’ she clarifies, jabbing a very pointy, very glossy fingernail in Ron’s direction. ‘Sorry I was a dick. The Weasley is Our King thing was very tacky. Also sorry for the general twattish behaviour and casual racism.’</p><p>‘What is she doing?’ Ron asks, looking quizzically over at Malfoy. His shirt is now a painful shade of fuchsia, peppered with vomit-coloured polka dots, which adds to the effect somehow. </p><p>‘This is what she’s <em>like</em>, Ronald,’ Malfoy moans, covering his face with his hands. ‘Nobody taught her how to emote or communicate so <em>this</em> is how she approaches conflict resolution.’</p><p>‘Granger,’ Pansy continues, turning to glare at Hermione, who drops a half-peeled satsuma in shock. ‘The whole fake story about you and Potter dating, and also the racism. That was all very wrong. I am sorry. Not that it’s an excuse, but apparently being an extremely closeted rug-muncher will make you do extremely stupid and aggressive things to girls you’re attracted to. Again, sorry about that. Also congratulations on the nuptials. Your children will be very attractive, I’m sure.’</p><p>Hermione nods along slowly, though she seems too confused to do much else. </p><p>‘<em>Circe’s heaving bosom</em>,’ Malfoy mutters through his fingers.</p><p>Ginny’s face is buried in Harry’s shoulder and she’s making awful, snorting giggles. It’s not at all subtle.</p><p>‘Potter!’ Pansy shouts.</p><p>Harry jumps a little, and Ginny only laughs harder.</p><p>‘Sorry I was a cunt,’ Pansy says, with no small amount of aggression. ‘The list of cunty activities is a bit long, and that vodka is hitting me like a fucking Erumpent, so let’s just pretend I said it all. Oh, and sorry for trying to turn you over to Snake-Face. That’s probably the cuntiest of my teenage decisions.’</p><p>‘Er,’ says Harry. ‘I was never actually angry at you, Parkinson.’</p><p>Pansy rolls her eyes. ‘Just <em>accept</em> my apology,’ she groans, ‘so I can get bloody well on with it, Potter.’</p><p>Harry feels like he’s in the middle of a very frightening, very confusing training programme and his fight-or-flight response is about to kick in. ‘Um. Apology accepted?’</p><p>Pansy awards Harry with a clipped nod, apparently ready to move onto her next victim. ‘Thank you.’</p><p>‘I hope I’m next,’ Luna pipes up happily.</p><p>Malfoy wanders over just as Pansy swivels a little unsteadily towards Luna. </p><p>‘I need a better angle,’ Ginny tells Harry gleefully. ‘I’m going to play this for George in the pensieve when I get home.’ She detaches herself from Harry with a peck on his cheek, claps Malfoy on the back, and heads over to stand beside Ron.</p><p>‘Lovegood!’ Pansy yells from across the room. ‘Let’s start with the shoes.’</p><p>Malfoy hands Harry a drink that’s two parts vodka and one part lemonade. ‘Brace yourself, Potter,’ he says wearily. ‘It’s all downhill from here.’</p><p>-</p><p>Pansy hands Harry back his tea, having added a splash of milk and two cubes of sugar. </p><p>‘Cheers,’ Harry says. ‘Um, you two should have some of the macarons. They’re Draco’s favourites.’ He gestures lamely at the open box set on the low table between them.</p><p>‘Oh,’ says Narcissa softly. She looks at Harry, tilting her head slightly. ‘Did Draco tell you to come too? He asks Pansy to come by on weekdays, you see. Did he tell you to visit too, Mr. Potter?’</p><p>‘Not exactly,’ Harry replies. He glances at Pansy uneasily, but the witch’s face is a perfect mask of ice-cool composure. </p><p>
  <em>Fucking Slytherins.</em>
</p><p>Narcissa’s gaze slides off Harry and settles somewhere behind his shoulder. ‘So thoughtful of him,’ she says, as though Harry hadn’t said a word. ‘Draco was always such a thoughtful boy. A good boy.’ She lifts her cup halfway to her lips, then sets it back into the saucer. ‘Too good,’ she murmurs. ‘Too… too good.’</p><p>Pansy’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m sure Potter thinks Draco is just the picture of saintly virtue.’</p><p>Narcissa nods, looking down at her cup. She lifts it again, and then sets it down on the tabletop, saucer still balanced in her left hand. ‘I love him so much, you know,’ she says. She lifts her gaze and stares at Harry, her forehead creasing deeply as she leans forward in her seat. ‘Mr. Potter. You must know. I love him more than anything.’</p><p>Harry saw a portrait malfunction once, when he was still an Auror. It had been hit by a stray curse, and instead of reacting to the person standing directly in front of it, the wizard in the portrait kept repeating a number of answers to a person who was no longer there - as though he was trapped in a series of motions. In the end Harry had sent the thing off to a Cursebreaker for processing, but the damage was permanent. Harry never found out what happened to the portrait after that.</p><p>Narcissa reminds him strangely of that poor wizard’s portrait. It makes him want to run out of the apartment screaming - but that’s not exactly polite, so Harry sits and drinks his tea and wishes it were something a little stronger.</p><p>‘We’re very fond of him too,’ Pansy interjects smoothly. ‘He’s our favourite brat.’</p><p>Narcissa nods sagely. ‘Draco takes care of me,’ she responds. ‘He always takes care of me. He’s a good boy.’</p><p>‘Er, yes,’ Harry says. ‘Speaking of, have you seen him lately?’</p><p>Narcissa stares at Harry for a while, blinking too few times for his comfort. ‘He doesn’t come round on weekdays, he sends Pansy. He visits on weekends. He never wants me to be afraid or alone. I wish he wasn’t such a good boy, Mr. Potter. You know that. You must know.’ And, then, again: ‘I love him more than anything.’</p><p>Pansy glances at Harry, and they share the briefest of looks. </p><p>‘Perhaps we should drop by another time?’ Harry offers, setting down his tea. ‘I know I sort of barged in without warning.’</p><p>Pansy kicks him viciously in the ankle, by which she means, <em>don’t lump me in with your lack of manners, you wanker.</em></p><p>‘You are welcome any time, Mr. Potter,’ Narcissa says. Her gaze slides back over to that same spot on the wall behind Harry. ‘Please return at your earliest convenience. Yes. Draco would love it.’</p><p>Harry manages a smile, and he takes another gulp of his tea. Pansy takes a macaron and shoves it in her mouth.</p><p>‘Always taking care of me,’ Narcissa says to the wall, and Harry wants to throw himself out the window. </p><p>-</p><p>They’re all at the pub near Luna’s - too many bodies squashed into a booth, with Hermione nearly sat on top of Malfoy - when Ron announces he’s quitting the Aurors to work with George.</p><p>Harry’s so happy for him. He’s sad, sure, but he’s also so happy it makes his heart ache in a nice, glowy kind of way. Ron deserves a life with his family. He deserves to go home at a reasonable time, to play with his kids and know that he’ll be around to watch them grow up. Harry won’t have to carry Dittany around so much anymore, now that he knows Ron’s safe.</p><p>He’s still beaming at his best friend when Ginny taps him on the shoulder. </p><p>‘So, Harry,’ she says with a very <em>loud</em> kind of cheerfulness, ‘now’s the best time to consider that offer from the Tornados. They’re dying to have you.’</p><p>Harry blinks. ‘I haven’t got time, Gin,’ he says confusedly, turning to face his girlfriend properly. ‘I’m crammed with cases until Christmas.’</p><p>Ginny’s nose wrinkles as she looks up at him. ‘But I thought - well Ron’s quitting.’</p><p>Harry shakes his head, still feeling a bit lost. ‘Yes, but Ron’s not trying out for the Tornados, Gin.’</p><p>‘It’s just,’ Ginny sighs, ‘surely you’ve done enough for everyone. You can just be happy now.’</p><p>Something about those words feels like a slap in Harry’s face. </p><p><em>You can just be happy now</em>. <em>It’s enough. </em></p><p>What the hell is that supposed to mean anyways? What could Ginny possibly be unhappy about? He’s worked hard for this position. He stuck through three years of training, of being yelled at and sneered at and learning how to wandlessly conjure fire in a fucking swamp being devoured by gnats, but hey, it’s all fine to just up and quit something he’s finally good at, right? Is he supposed to be playing Quidditch because it’s what <em>she </em>does? Because it’s what she wants for him? <em>Fuck</em> her then. </p><p>The pub is too small, the ceiling is too low, and there’s just too much magic, too many spells prickling against his senses. He can feel it building and building and building up inside of him, and Ginny’s looking at him with dark, frightened eyes, and Hermione’s trying to say something to him, but all he can hear is the sound of his blood boiling in his veins. Harry’s pint glass melts beneath his fingers, hissing as it pools in a glowing circle on the table. He can’t stop it, he can’t control it, he’s going to hurt someone if he doesn’t <em>move</em>.</p><p>He thinks he hears someone calling out his name but he can’t stop. He has to get outside.</p><p>He walks and walks and walks down the country lane until it’s finally quiet, and then he leans against a fence and tries to remember how to make his lungs work again. He’s bent over with his hands braced on the cold metal railing, when he hears a faint pop behind him.</p><p>‘Breathe, Potter,’ says Malfoy’s voice.</p><p>Harry shakes his head. ‘Don’t come near me,’ he says, because he still hasn’t gotten it under control.</p><p>‘Harry.’</p><p>Harry whirls around and backs down the road, away from Malfoy. ‘Don’t come near me,’ he says again, feeling nearly hysterical.</p><p>‘It’s alright,’ Malfoy says. He’s not afraid of Harry - but he should be. He just looks worried. ‘I’m not near you.’</p><p>‘<em>Don’t-’</em></p><p>‘Harry,’ Malfoy interrupts, lifting up his palms. ‘Breathe. I’m fine. I won’t come near you.’</p><p>Malfoy glances at the fence, at the glowing red handprints on the metal that are only just starting to cool. He looks up again at Harry, his expression unreadable, before he waves his wand at the fence, erasing the handprints entirely. He vaults gracefully over the fence and into the field on the other side - more gracefully than Harry’s ever seen him do anything - and takes a few steps into the field before sitting down in the tall grass. After a moment, Harry climbs over the fence and sits with him. </p><p>There are wildflowers swaying in the night breeze. The soil is damp and a little cold, but it smells like spring - like sap and petals and blossoms and rainwater. </p><p>Harry turns to frown at Malfoy. ‘Did you call me Harry?’</p><p>Malfoy glances at him. ‘That is your given name, is it not?’</p><p>‘Alright then. Draco.’</p><p>‘Harry,’ Draco repeats, with the tiniest hint of a smirk.</p><p>They both chuckle a little. It’s weird how they’ve spent so many years as friends and still only ever called each other by their last names. It feels like the end of an era, in many ways. The world pivots onward.</p><p>‘You can get angry at her, you know,’ Draco says, breaking the comfortable silence. ‘That’s normal.’</p><p>Harry shakes his head. ‘Not the way I get angry,’ he replies. ‘I’m better at cooling down usually, but it’s so loud in there with all the spells and it being a wizarding inn and all the wands and just-’ he breaks off, feeling stupid. </p><p>Normal people don’t get headaches from background magic. Harry’s supposed to be normal. He's supposed to be working on becoming normal. That’s why he goes to Healers and lets them poke and prod him and give him potions to take, even if they make him nauseous and jittery. </p><p>‘Is it quiet out here?’ Draco asks.</p><p>‘Well, no,’ Harry admits. ‘But it’s not jarring. It’s more like ambient music.’</p><p>Harry doesn’t quite have the words yet to explain to Draco what it’s like to be able to sink your fingers into the earth and feel the ley lines hum beneath you, deep and resonant - to know that you can drag that power up and let it pour into you, or to fall into it and let the current carry you away.</p><p>‘Am I not loud?’ Draco asks. ‘I have a wand now. I did a spell just now.’</p><p>‘Yeah, and I felt that,’ Harry replies. ‘But you’re… your magic is soothing. You’re like a meditation melody or something,’</p><p>Draco looks at Harry like he’s a puzzle that needs solving. ‘You say the strangest fucking things,’ he remarks. ‘Someday I’ll figure out what you really mean.’</p><p>-</p><p>‘What are you really doing in Paris, Potter?’ Pansy asks, when they’ve finally managed to escape Narcissa’s apartment.</p><p>Harry pushes his unruly hair out of his face and tips his head skyward. ‘Ah, it’s a long story,’ he sighs, ‘and technically I can’t even tell you half of it.’</p><p>Pansy rolls her eyes and grabs him by the wrist. ‘Potter, don’t start,’ she says, and Apparates them to her apartment. </p><p>In classic Pansy fashion, she makes them both a coffee-liquor latte, sits down at the kitchen table, toes off her stilettos, and props her stockinged feet on Harry’s lap.</p><p>‘So,’ she says, after she’s had a long chug of her drink, ‘what <em>are</em> you doing here?’</p><p>Harry holds up a finger against his lips and shakes his head, miming silence. He pulls his wand out of its holster and waves it at Pansy’s extractor fan. There is a mild chime, and then the awful tension that’s been bothering Harry since he got here unravels.</p><p>‘Merlin’s saggy tits,’ Pansy curses, whipping around to glare at her extractor fan. ‘A listening spell? Are you taking the piss?’</p><p>Harry chuckles softly. ‘Yes, well.’ He takes a sip of the boozy coffee. It burns all the way down. ‘To answer your question, Draco’s gone missing for a week and the Aurors think it means he’s getting into Dark Magic.’</p><p>Pansy scoffs.</p><p>‘My sentiments exactly,’ Harry agrees wryly. He takes another sip of the coffee and sets it down on the kitchen table. ‘I’m here because I’m technically under the authority of the Department of Mysteries, and no, before you ask, I can’t tell you which division. But I will tell you that my orders came from an Unspeakable Zabini.’</p><p>Pansy’s eyes flash in recognition, and she grins slowly. ‘That sly bastard,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘That was Blaise, Potter. As in, Blaise Zabini, procurer of the fancy champagne we always have for Draco’s birthday.’</p><p>Harry’s jaw drops. ‘As in, fucked Oliver Wood into a three-day stupor, Blaise?’ he utters. ‘What - why didn’t I recognize him?’</p><p>‘He’s required to wear a very advanced cosmetic charm for work,’ Pansy explains, waving a manicured hand dismissively. ‘Anyways, enough about Blaise.’ She leans in close, narrowing her eyes. ‘Did you notice something odd about Narcissa?’</p><p>‘Yeah, she was off. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was some kind of mind-altering curse - not Imperius, because we’ve got a track on those now.’ He shakes his head. ‘But there’s just so much background noise in that apartment. I can’t pick it out.’</p><p>‘You’re that sensitive to magic?’ Pansy asks.</p><p>‘Yeah, side effect of having a Horcrux attached to me for sixteen years,’ Harry replies. ‘Lost the Parseltongue, gained lots of other weird stuff. I found out last year that I can Apparate wandlessly as long as I travel along ley lines.’</p><p>‘What the actual fuck, Potter?’ Pansy says, a groove appearing between her eyebrows. ‘That’s not normal.’</p><p>‘I <em>did</em> say it was weird,’ Harry snorts. ‘But, to get back to the point - as far as Draco’s told me, his mother is actually quite good at throwing off any kind of mind-altering curses.’</p><p>‘She is,’ Pansy confirms. She tucks her hair behind her ear and leans back into her seat. The groove between her eyebrows deepens considerably. ‘But then if it wasn’t some kind of Confundus charm, what the fuck was that? I’ve never known Narcissa to speak so incoherently.’</p><p>‘People speak like that if they’re drugged,’ Harry says thoughtfully. He glances up at Pansy. ‘Could it be that?’</p><p>She tosses a hand skyward. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. It was so fucking unsettling.’ She peers into her empty glass and frowns. ‘I’m going to make some more. D’you want any?’</p><p>Harry tilts his half-full cup towards Pansy. ‘Still working on it.’</p><p>‘Work faster,’ she orders. She slips her feet off his lap and heads over to the stove, pouring a frightening amount of coffee liquor into the pot. ‘This shit is too weird to mull over sober.’</p><p>-</p><p>Harry wishes he was a little less sober. He’s standing in line to get into a Muggle nightclub with a pack of pureblood Slytherins, who are wearing Muggle clothes and talking excitedly about Muggle things, and it’s just so fucking <em>weird </em>that Harry wonders if he’s fallen into an alternate universe where there was never an army of bigots in fancy dress killing people. </p><p>Pansy looks the way she always does - fishnets and stilettos and vampy makeup - and there’s some safety in that, but she’s giggling and leaning heavily on Blaise Zabini. He’s dressed in a black turtleneck that makes the cut of his jaw more devastating than usual, and there are diamond studs in his ears. Blaise is so handsome that it’s a little uncomfortable to witness. Theodore Nott stands just behind the other two, smoking a stolen cigarette. His hair is very intentionally windswept, the collar of his extortionately expensive shirt rumpled and unbuttoned. They look like spoiled, rich kids - but in a Muggle way, and it’s <em>weird</em>.</p><p>Draco elbows Harry in the ribs. ‘It’s going to be fun,’ he says in Harry’s ear, low enough not to be overheard over the <em>thump-thump-thump</em> of the club. </p><p>He smells nice - <em>Draco always smells nice</em> - but this time it’s more of a cologne smell than his usual faint perfume of mint, lemon and cedarwood. Draco’s not really keeping with whatever theme the Slytherins have going on, but he does look good - <em>Draco always looks good</em>. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, and a leather jacket with the collar propped up against the chill, and he’s got a freshly rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear. He’s put a little product in his hair so that it stays out of his face, but that only makes the colour of his eyes more striking. </p><p>‘I don’t know,’ Harry sighs. ‘It’s just so weird.’ He shivers a little bit and wonders why he didn’t think to bring a coat or something.</p><p>‘That’s rather the point, darling,’ Draco says.</p><p>He smiles at Harry like they’re sharing the most delicious inside joke, and Harry tries not to roll his eyes. Last week Draco went with Harry all the way to Germany to watch Ginny’s match, even though it rained <em>all </em>weekend, so now Harry <em>owes</em> Draco, which is why he’s here, trying not to throw himself into the gutter in an attempt to roll away from all this awkwardness. </p><p>‘This is going to end badly’ Harry sighs.</p><p>‘That’s very likely,’ Draco says, looping his arm through Harry’s. ‘But at least I got you out of the house. And you look fit.’</p><p>Harry raises an eyebrow sardonically at his friend. ‘You’re taking the piss,’ he says. ‘I look like an under-budget uni student.’</p><p>Harry, as always, is underdressed. He’s wearing an old Weird Sisters t-shirt, a pair of jeans that he might have worn while fixing up Grimmauld Place, and his dragonhide boots (Ginny and Hermione conspired to throw away his favourite trainers and now he has nothing except wizarding shoes). </p><p>Draco laughs, tipping his head back. ‘Circe, Harry,’ he says breathlessly, when he’s done. ‘You have <em>no </em>idea.’ He pats Harry’s upper arm fondly. ‘I adore you, but you have the observation skills of a rock.’</p><p>The boy behind the bar knows Draco, so he gives them all doubles for the price of singles - except for Draco, who’s still on potions, and gets a Diet Coke instead. The bartender is cute, in a button-nosed, doe-eyed kind of way. Harry’s sort of come to the realisation that maybe he finds boys cute too, after a few confused moments in the trainee locker rooms and maybe three bizarre dreams about Oliver Wood, but when Draco’s friend passes Harry his number on a coaster with a wink, Harry has to politely tell him that he’s very much not single, but is flattered anyways.</p><p>Draco laughs so hard throughout Harry’s awkward fumbling that he nearly spills his drink down his shirt.</p><p>Pansy stares at Harry and shakes her head. ‘You complete imbecile,’ she says. ‘You could’ve gotten three more drinks out of that twink. Merlin, save us from Gryffindors.’</p><p>Harry’s not exactly sure how he’s managed to become friends with Pansy fucking Parkinson, but if you can insult someone like that, the way Draco likes to insult Harry, then you’re definitely friends. And Harry quite likes being friends. It sure beats the other stuff that went on in seventh year, because that seems a little too big and complicated for such a very small bar. It also beats whatever the fuck happened at Draco’s parole party.</p><p>‘That’s alright, Pans,’ Blaise grins. ‘I reckon I can get five out of him.’</p><p>Blaise doesn’t come back for the rest of the night. They have no idea where he’s gone until Draco returns from the restroom with a look of horrified disgust, from which Pansy deducts - correctly - that Blaise is fucking said twink-bartender in a bathroom stall. Loudly. </p><p>Theo drops a handful of galleons into Pansy’s gleeful paw and wanders off muttering about a drink.</p><p>‘I <em>hate</em> Blaise,’ Draco tells Harry, pressing up against him with his long, lean body. ‘He fucks <em>all</em> my friends.’</p><p> Harry wonders why they keep bars so warm and stuffy. </p><p>‘I need a cigarette,’ Draco declares. He wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist, a movement they’ve repeated so often at this point it feels like second nature. ‘Come with me?’</p><p>Harry’s feeling a bit dizzy, so he nods. There’s a flurry of bodies pressing against each other, too many people and too little air, and Harry sort of loses track of things a little until Draco pulls him out into the brisk night air, and they lean against the damp bricks while Draco lights his cigarette with a Muggle lighter. </p><p>Harry doesn’t know that he’s breathing kind of funny until Malfoy hands him the cigarette by the filter.</p><p>‘This’ll help,’ he says. ‘It’s not great for your lungs, but it’s alright for panic attacks.’</p><p>Harry stares at the cigarette, the amber end glowing brilliantly in the curve of his hand. The first pull of Draco’s cigarette makes him cough a little, but the second eases off the pounding at his temples a little. He frowns at the cigarette. </p><p>‘Huh,’ he says.</p><p>Draco plucks the cigarette from Harry’s fingers. His skin is so pale in comparison to Harry’s dark, summer-browned skin. ‘Our adults did a real number on us,’ he says quietly, ‘didn’t they?’</p><p>Harry tries to fight against the knee-jerk defensiveness. They’ve had this conversation before, about Lucius, about Narcissa. About Sirius, and Snape. About Dumbledore. </p><p>‘Some of them did the best they could,’ Harry says, hating the way he sounds petulant. </p><p>‘I think-’ Draco breaks off, inhaling deeply and running his fingers through his hair. It looks feather-light, silk-soft. ‘I think it’s alright to acknowledge that they were deeply flawed people who hurt others, sometimes on purpose. I think they also tried to take care of us. But I won’t pretend that Severus’s behaviour towards his students was excusable, just because he was a war hero. And I don’t think you should forgive Dumbledore for what he did to you.’</p><p>Harry bites his lip and scuffs his shoe against the pavement. ‘He had his reasons.’</p><p>‘Everyone has reasons, Harry,’ Draco says. ‘Let me put it this way. If it meant saving the world, would you take Teddy away from Aunt Andromeda? Would you give him to the Lestranges? Or maybe a Malfoy?’</p><p>‘No, of course not,’ Harry frowned. ‘Christ. Merlin. <em>No</em>.’</p><p>‘Your Muggle family were bloody appalling, Harry,’ Draco points out. ‘You didn’t have to stay with people who didn’t want you. There were plenty of people who were willing to take care of you. Lupin. Hagrid. Hell, even Severus would have been a better option.’</p><p>‘I just, I want to believe that things weren’t as bad as they were,’ Harry says. ‘I don’t want to be a tragedy. I want things to be good.’</p><p>Draco tilts his head and studies Harry carefully. The tungsten tint of the lamplight neutralizes the cold silver of his eyes, and it makes them look almost colourless. He looks beautiful in the night. He looks beautiful in the daytime too. It’s funny, how context can change someone’s physical appearance so starkly. Harry doesn’t know how to look at Draco and see<em> Malfoy</em> anymore. </p><p>‘I can’t change our past,’ Draco tells Harry, ‘no matter how much I want to. But,’ he adds, his voice taking on a hard, determined tone, ‘you’re not going to be a tragedy. I’m not going to be a tragedy. We’re going to have<em> everything</em>, Harry. Just you wait and see.’</p><p>-</p><p>Harry doesn’t end up with everything.</p><p>In the Forest of Dean, on the really bad days, Harry used to stare up at the ceiling of the tent and construct himself an everything-forever-happy-ending. The kind that used to keep him company in the cupboard under the stairs. He used to imagine himself getting happily married to Ginny in the yard behind the Burrow, and then living in a nice house in Godric’s Hollow with three children and a crup, and on Christmas everyone could have as many helpings of pudding as they liked, and all would be well.</p><p>Instead, on an insignificant November night, Ginny hugs Harry, tells him she’s really sorry, but that it’s over between them, and Floos to the Burrow.</p><p><em>This isn’t your fault, Harry</em>, she says, but it is.</p><p><em>You’re a wonderful person, Harry</em>, she says, except he’s not.</p><p><em>You deserve every bit of happiness,</em> she says, but he doesn’t deserve anything.</p><p>Harry knows it’s not one reason. It’s a hundred, a thousand reasons piled on top of each other, and Ginny’s just had enough of it - the fights, Harry’s temper, his out-of-control magic, his nightmares, the way he doesn’t sleep, the way he doesn’t talk about things that normal people talk about. </p><p>And that’s alright. It’s alright.</p><p>Harry lies down the rug in front of his fireplace, and he stares at his ceiling and wonders how he can feel so fucking tired. He closes his eyes, hoping that sleep comes, even though it never does, but in the darkness he sees the faces of all those he’s loved so fiercely, all those kind and good and brave people who’ve left him behind. </p><p>There’s a soft, distant pop, and then footsteps treading over the carpeted floor of his living room, and then a quiet, sympathetic, ‘<em>Oh, </em>Harry.’</p><p>He feels cold fingers press gently against his forehead, against his eyelids, his feverish cheeks. He smells faint scent of mint, lemon and cedarwood.</p><p>‘I’m here,’ Draco whispers. ‘I’m here. I’ve got you.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is not a Ginny-bashing fic - Ginny is a badass and generally a good-time gal and also is Worried about Harry because 50% of this fic is people worrying about Harry and then 50% is a 'Where's Draco mystery'.<br/>So like, where's Draco?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. mass, momentum and gravity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry bites down on his lip. ‘If I find him,’ he says, ‘I’ll tell him then.’<br/>Pansy barks out a laugh and rolls her eyes. ‘If?’ she says incredulously. ‘You’re Harry fucking Potter. You can Apparate along ley lines. You had such a high case rate when you were an Auror that you broke the record. And even if you weren’t Boy Wonder, Potter,’ she adds, shaking her head, ‘you two are locked in an orbit that not even the Dark Lord could break. You were made to find each other. To be together.’</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘She said it wasn’t my fault we broke up,’ Harry mumbles, staring down his fifth glass of extremely nice goblin wine. ‘But it was.’</p><p>They haven’t really managed to make it off the rug in front of his fireplace. Harry’s been drinking since he managed to stop crying. He Summoned the bottle over earlier with a wordless, wandless spell that made Draco’s eyebrows climb his face. Harry doesn’t like to do wandless magic in front of people, but saying the words, waving the wand - it stings, like a rubber band being snapped against his knuckles, and he’s feeling a little rawer than most days.</p><p>‘Why do you think it was your fault?’ Draco asks, his voice soft. By some miracle he hasn’t left yet, and he’s the only thing keeping Harry from sinking into the ocean of his misery. </p><p>‘Of course it’s my fault.’ Harry tips the rest of the glass down his throat and sets it down in front of the fireplace. He’s probably had enough. The world is blurry enough so that he can’t feel Ginny’s magic anymore. ‘I’m fucked up, Draco. Nobody in their right mind would want to put up with all of this,’ he says, gesturing vaguely over himself and the area around him. ‘Who’s going to want to love this?’</p><p>Draco shuffles a little closer and takes Harry’s hands. His fingers don’t twitch anymore, not like they used to. His grasp is steady, and through it Harry feels his magic pool around them like an oasis. Harry wants to lean back into it and let it soothe all his jagged edges.</p><p>‘You aren’t something to be put up with, Harry,’ Draco says. ‘And even if you are a little fucked up, you still deserve to be loved.’</p><p>The firelight is amber as it lines the planes of his face, dipping in beneath his cheeks and brushing at the lines that bracket his lips. Draco always holds himself in layers of sarcasm and biting wit, but Harry watches him as the mask comes completely off and Harry feels that same shifting of the earth beneath his feet, and gravity readjusts to the earth as it turns off its centre. And then Draco is looking at Harry like he deserves this, deserves to be looked at like he matters, and it makes Harry’s mouth go bitter and his stomach twist savagely.</p><p>‘You don’t understand,’ Harry says. </p><p>‘Oh, I’m sure I understand,’ Draco snorts. ‘I’m pretty fucked up too. Maybe even more fucked up than you.’ </p><p>‘No,’ Harry says firmly, shaking his head. ‘Draco, you’re perfect.’</p><p>‘I am <em>not</em> perfect,’ Draco says fiercely, tugging on Harry’s hands. ‘<em>Don’t </em>say that.’</p><p>‘But you <em>are</em>,’ Harry insists. ‘And I’m not. I’m not even good.’</p><p>Draco looks like he’s going to cry. ‘Who are you comparing yourself to? I’m hardly a saint, Harry. I’ve got a tacky tattoo to prove it.’</p><p>Harry frowns. ‘That’s different.’</p><p>‘What feats are there left for you to achieve, Harry, that would make you finally worthy of love?’ Draco runs his thumbs over Harry’s scarred knuckles, over the stark white lettering - <em>I must not tell lies - </em>that will likely never fade<em>.</em> ‘You are handsome, and clever, and despite perhaps being the most powerful wizard of our generation, you are humble, and you never look down on anyone. You save people, every day, and you never once ask for any thanks for it.’</p><p>Harry ignores the way his chest grows warm at the words <em>handsome</em> and <em>clever. </em>He’s done nothing to be worthy of Draco’s praise. ‘But I’m not <em>good</em>,’ he repeats.</p><p>‘Circe,’ Draco snaps, his eyes flashing with frustration. ‘What unattainable standard of martyrdom are you holding yourself to?’ </p><p>Harry looks down at where Draco is gripping his hands tightly, and thinks about chocolate, and the strange kindness of simple gifts, and the heavy fog of his mind clears. ‘Remus,’ he says. ‘Remus was good. Remus was the best of them.’</p><p>Draco’s face softens. ‘Oh, Harry,’ he whispers.</p><p>‘Remus was kind to me,’ Harry continues. His eyes feel hot and his body feels heavy. ‘Remus gave me chocolate when I felt down. He… he listened to me. He gave me somewhere safe to go to. He was so good, Draco, you’ll never understand - he made me feel like I still had family in this world, even when I didn’t know that he was friends with my parents.’</p><p>Draco cups Harry’s face with his palm, brushing the tears away from Harry’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. ‘<em>You</em> gave me chocolate when I was feeling down,’ he reminds Harry. ‘And we weren’t even friends back then. Hell, I’d say we were on the verge of killing each other. But you were still kind to me. You <em>are</em> like Remus. You <em>are </em>good.’</p><p>Draco presses his palms against Harry’s cheeks and presses his forehead against Harry’s and Harry feels a very different sort of ache grow within his chest, mingling with his grief. Draco is kind and clever and beautiful and perfect. The world tilts beneath him and he falls forwards into the vastness of his emotion, and it frightens him, but he can’t help it, because this is how they are, him and Draco, Draco and him, and he’s been headed here since he read Draco’s heartlines transcribed in that lovely letter.</p><p>‘It is effortless to love you, Harry,’ Draco whispers. ‘Easier than breathing.’</p><p>‘<em>Draco</em>,’ Harry says fervently, and kisses him.</p><p>Draco makes a lovely, gasping sound in his throat. He kisses Harry back with a reverence that makes Harry <em>ache</em> deep into the roots of his soul. Draco’s mouth is like sweetwater and Harry drinks him in. Draco’s fingers are like gentle rain as they track down Harry’s spine, his grasp like the tug of the tide pulling out to sea, and Harry follows him into a sprawl across the rug. He hasn’t known how much a person could yearn for someone until he presses his lips into Draco’s neck and hears the soft, broken exclamation torn from Draco’s throat. But kissing Draco’s neck means not kissing his mouth, so Harry groans in mourning as he kisses Draco again and again and again until they are both trembling. </p><p>‘Harry,’ Draco whispers, his breath hot on Harry’s lips. ‘Harry, you don’t want this.’</p><p>‘I’m fairly sure I do,’ Harry groans, shifting his hips so that Draco can feel just how much he wants.</p><p>Draco makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat. ‘Circe, give me a moment to <em>think</em>,’ he whines. </p><p>He pushes Harry back with enough force to separate their bodies. The haze of desire lifts off Harry slightly, but not enough to stop him from locking his hands around Draco’s wrists.</p><p>‘As much as I’d love for you to throw me onto the rug and have your wicked way with me, you’re absolutely intoxicated. And you’re heartbroken. And sad and drunk sex is never a good idea.’ He looks up at Harry, his brow wrinkled with concern. ‘I’ve never had drunk sex, but I have had a lot of sad sex. It’s shite.’</p><p>Harry laughs, despite the heavy weight of rejection. ‘Right,’ he says, smiling self-deprecatingly. ‘I’m sorry. I should have asked if you want - of course you don’t.’</p><p>Draco bites down lightly on his kiss-stung lips. His eyes are the very fire that lights the stars when he looks at Harry, and Harry doesn’t know how <em>not</em> to want Draco anymore.  Harry sighs heavily and pulls further away from Draco, trying to ignore the magnetic drag of his desire. </p><p>‘If I let myself have this,’ Draco says softly, sadly, ‘I shall lose you as soon as you sober up and come to your senses. I can’t lose you, Harry.’</p><p>Harry wants to shake Draco and yell at him. He wants Draco to understand that this isn’t the alcohol, or the sorrow, or even the burn of loneliness and abandonment. This is sunlight across the Quidditch pitches on a spring afternoon and the glint of the Snitch in the air. This is scraped knees and hexes flung and notes passed in classes, and chocolate and war and death and loss and grief, and a moonlit night in a field full of wildflowers and the gentle quiet of someone who tilts in harmony with you, and how rare and wonderful this thing between them is. </p><p>But Draco looks so very sad and fragile and afraid, and Harry needs to fix this.</p><p>‘Okay,’ Harry says. He folds his hands in his lap, if only to stop from reaching out towards the other man. ‘But Draco? You won’t lose me. Ever.’</p><p>Draco’s relief washes over his face, and he smiles so fondly at Harry that it makes the jagged wound in his heart almost bearable. </p><p>-</p><p>At first Harry is terrified that he’s ruined everything.</p><p>But then Sunday comes around, and they have tea in the conservatory as the last of the autumn rains come down, and Teddy gets jam all over Harry’s shirt and Draco laughs so hard he snorts hot tea out through his nostrils, and Harry catches Draco’s eye and they just smile at each other. They’re just fine, because that’s what they’re like - Harry and Draco, Draco and Harry - and even if the earth shifts in its orbit slightly, it still obeys the rules of mass and momentum and gravity.</p><p>Only, there’s a soreness in Harry’s chest now, like an old bruise. It blooms like a flower when Draco murmurs goodnight to Teddy, inky petals spreading over Harry’s heart when Draco hugs him goodbye. </p><p>Sometimes it bleeds like an open wound.</p><p>They do Christmas at Andromeda’s. Harry thinks it’s best that he gives Ginny her space, even though Ron keeps insisting that it’s fine, <em>really, Harry, we don’t want you alone, you’re family. </em>Harry’s not alone, and he is with family. He sits in front of the Christmas tree and watches fondly as Teddy rips apart everyone’s presents for them, because apparently none of them can do it fast enough, and tries not to laugh when Teddy places the ribbons in Draco’s hair and messes it up horribly, only then Draco glances over at Harry with a lopsided smile, and Harry can only stare at Draco and fall deeper and deeper.</p><p>Later on, after Teddy and Andromeda have called it a night, Harry and Draco have mulled wine out in the garden and watch the snow drift down, feather-like. Draco steps close and leans his head on Harry’s shoulder.</p><p>‘Will you promise me something, Harry?’ he asks.</p><p>
  <em>Anything. I’ll give you anything.</em>
</p><p>‘Sure,’ Harry says out loud, because he’s messed up once already.</p><p>‘I want this,’ he says. ‘Every Christmas. For the rest of my life.’ He sighs, and his breath curls in visible plumes of moisture against the icy air. ‘Promise me we’ll spend them all together, until I’m old and decrepit, and you have to carry me everywhere with your big, strong arms.’</p><p>Harry laughs quietly and looks up at the sky. He thinks he might split open from the beautiful agony of it all. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Every Christmas. Forever.’</p><p>-</p><p>‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Pansy asks.</p><p>Harry looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor of her bedroom, scanning through letters and notes Draco’s owled Pansy over the past few months. She’s sprawled across her bed with a heavy volume sitting on her ribcage, an empty bottle of Ogden’s lying beside her. </p><p>‘Christmas break,’ Harry replies. ‘Things were good. I booked us a week in Muggle Bruges. He loves it, you know.’ A fond smile breaks over his face, despite the tight coil of anxiety in his chest. ‘I wanted to do something nice for <em>him</em>, for a change.’</p><p>Pansy sits up slowly, her eyes narrowing as she stares at him.</p><p>‘It’s just,’ Harry sighs, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly, ‘things were just so shit for him in England. And I was so wrapped up in my own issues that I never really noticed - or rather, I didn’t do anything about it even if I <em>did</em> notice. And he was always so perfect with me. And I wanted- I want to be perfect for him.’</p><p>‘Merlin, Potter,’ Pansy says. ‘You’re in love with him. You’re in love with Draco.’</p><p>She’s got a strange expression on her face that’s part sympathy and part frustration. Harry looks away. He’s seen that same look on Luna’s face before, on the one occasion they talked about Harry’s feelings about Draco. <em>For Draco</em>. Luna thinks things are better in the open, but she doesn’t know what it’s like to be desperate enough to butcher your heart to keep a friendship alive. </p><p>‘How long were you keeping that hidden?’ Pansy asks softly.</p><p>Harry runs his gaze along Draco’s handwriting. He’s read so many letters from Draco that he knows the phrases Draco favours, the metaphors he overuses. ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s better this way.’</p><p>‘It really isn’t, Potter,’ Pansy says, sounding choked. When he looks back up at her, he can see that her eyes are bright with tears. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Of course you don’t - you’ve always been the most oblivious of the lot. <em>Tell</em> him,’ she grits out. </p><p>Harry bites down on his lip. ‘If I find him,’ he says, ‘I’ll tell him then.’</p><p>Pansy barks out a laugh and rolls her eyes. ‘<em>If?</em>’ she says incredulously. ‘You’re Harry fucking Potter. You can Apparate along ley lines. You had such a high case rate when you were an Auror that you broke the record. And even if you weren’t Boy Wonder, Potter,’ she adds, shaking her head, ‘you two are locked in an orbit that not even the Dark Lord could break. You were made to find each other. To be together.’</p><p>Harry throws his hands up. ‘And what, Pansy?’ he snaps. ‘Are you trying to tell me that I’m going to find Draco because we’re magical soulmates or something?’</p><p>‘Yes,’ Pansy replies. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’</p><p>‘You’re drunk,’ Harry says, unfolding the letter in his hand. </p><p>‘And you’re a fucking idiot,’ Pansy retorts, but there’s a horrible, tired sadness in her voice that makes Harry’s stomach lurch. </p><p>He sighs, sets down the letter, gets to his feet, and walks over to Pansy. He pulls her into a tight hug. She’s smaller than she looks, more delicate too, so she hides it with her flashy clothes and her ridiculous heels. She’s always been the sort of person to cover up her fear and love and worry with a mask of frivolity and petty cruelty. </p><p>She’s silent as she cries into Harry’s shoulder, her fingers digging into his shoulder. Harry looks up at the impassive white paint that covers Pansy’s bedroom ceiling and tries not to think about the leviathans lurking between Pansy’s words.</p><p>-</p><p>‘You’re drunk, Potter,’ Draco grins, catching the olive between his teeth and pulling it off the toothpick in one smooth motion. </p><p>He’s developed a bit of a taste for martinis, now that he’s allowed to drink again. It suits him ridiculously well, of course. He’s started wearing clothing with buttons again, and now it’s all crisp shirts with the top two buttons undone, and pressed trousers and sometimes he’ll throw on a shirt-cardigan combo that nearly knocks Harry right the fuck over because, <em>Merlin</em>, Draco is gives sexy a new meaning. </p><p>‘Oh, shove off, <em>Malfoy</em>,’ Harry retorts good-naturedly. ‘You’d want to get sloshed too if you were forced to work with Robards.’</p><p>‘Slave-driver?’ Draco guesses, cocking an eyebrow.</p><p>‘Bureaucrat,’ Harry replies. He nods towards the bartender, gesturing at his now-empty glass of whiskey sour. ‘I’ve stepped on some toes recently.’</p><p>Draco smothers his laughter by taking another sip of his martini. ‘Oh, but isn’t that your speciality?’ he grins, and Harry doesn’t need to be Legilimens to know what scenes are flashing through his mind. ‘Broken toes?’</p><p>Harry narrows his eyes at Draco. ‘I thought we agreed never to mention the Shacklebolt incident ever again,’ he says. Two months ago, he made the front pages by stomping on Kingsley’s wife’s toes during an extremely poor attempt at the foxtrot, halfway through a benefit for war orphans. Thankfully, both Shacklebolts forgave him for his two left feet. </p><p>Draco bites down on his lip to keep from bursting into peals of laughter. The bartender gives him a confused look as he sets down Harry’s drink at his elbow and takes away the empty glass. It’s a mild reaction, compared to what they’ve gotten in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry and Draco have a habit of going to Muggle establishments these days, just to avoid the crowds and flashing cameras. Harry’s still a good sport about the whole Chosen-One, star Auror fame, but it can get a bit grating when people keep demanding to know why he’s hanging around with <em>Death Eater scum</em>. </p><p>‘Alright, alright,’ Draco says, holding his hands up in defeat. ‘But really, what did you do this time?’</p><p>‘Why must you always assume I’m to blame?’ Harry groans. </p><p>Draco only smiles and drinks his martini. Harry hates and loves that smug smile in equal measures.</p><p>‘So, anyhow,’ Harry sighs, pushing on regardless, ‘I’ve been placed on cold case review while they find me a new partner, and I’ve been following a trail of Snatcher funding through five levels of shell corporations.’</p><p>‘Harry Potter, performing actual investigative work?’ Draco drawls, leaning back into his chair. A lock of white-blonde hair falls charmingly into his eyes. ‘Will wonders never cease?’</p><p>‘You interrupt me another time and I’ll hex your balls off,’ Harry says, pointing at Draco’s irritably handsome face. </p><p>Draco throws Harry a lascivious wink. ‘You love me really.’</p><p><em>Merlin help me, I do</em>, Harry thinks, but he takes a gulp of his drink and pushes on, because he’ll finish this story whether or not Draco wants him to. ‘As I was saying,’ he frowns, ‘I managed to trace the money back to a Selwyn Thestral Stables. As in, Sylvia Selwyn’s side business for when she gets bored of playing pure-blood housewife. I checked it all against old receipts and it’s her signature on the payments alright. So, I send the summary up the line about Sylvia’s involvement, I do all the fucking paperwork, cross my t’s, dot my i’s - and do you know what Robards says to me?’</p><p>Draco tilts his head the way he always does when he’s trying to figure Harry out. ‘Well done on following DMLE protocol?’ he guesses.</p><p>‘<em>Stick to what you do best, my boy,</em>’ Harry says, mimicking Robards’s gravelly, rolling tones. ‘<em>Be heroic. Save the day. Defeat the bad guys.</em>’</p><p>Draco snorts. ‘Well, there’s a reductionist approach.’</p><p>‘Yes, well,’ Harry says, deflating slightly. ‘I’ve been assigned a new partner and put back in action, so I suppose you were right about the investigation thing. Guess I’m not cut out for it.’ He throws back the rest of his whiskey and stares at the bottom of his glass, wondering if he should cut himself off. But it’s a Saturday night, and he’s off tomorrow, before he gets flung into the thick of things again and won’t have time to eat or sleep.</p><p>‘You know,’ Draco muses, drawing Harry’s attention back towards him once more, ‘it might be that you got a little too close to the truth. The Selwyns have donated very generously to the Ministry restructure since the trials.’ He glances up at Harry, his eyes nearly glowing in the bar’s low light. ‘My father certainly employed similar tactics to keep the Ministry off his back after the first war. I’m sure he’s moving around his assets right now in an attempt to gain favour with just the right people to grant him parole.’</p><p>There’s a hollowness to the way Draco says those last few sentences, and his right hand clenches slightly as though fighting off a phantom pain. He’s as good as cured, but the curse damage was only half the trauma inflicted upon Draco by his piece-of-shit father. </p><p>The first few weeks off the potions were the worst. Draco kept having awful night-terrors and high fevers as his body - his magic - tried to fight against his terror. Harry couldn’t bear to let Draco suffer on his own. He stayed over every night, pressing cold towels against Draco’s brow, and watching helplessly as his friend curled into a tiny, protective ball, whimpering and weeping, locked in the nightmare with no escape. </p><p>Draco’s voice still haunts Harry. It keeps him awake, staring into the dark with hatred burning on his tongue and his sheets curling, blackening with the spread of his fiery rage. </p><p>
  <em>Please, Father. Don’t let him touch me.</em>
</p><p>‘He’s got a life sentence,’ Harry says gravely. ‘Lucius Malfoy will die in Azkaban, just as he deserves.’</p><p>Draco drops his gaze to the glossy surface of the table. His lips pull outwards into a bland smile. ‘You underestimate my father, Harry. In the end, Lucius always gets what he wants, regardless of what he has to do to achieve it.’</p><p>-</p><p>‘What do you <em>want</em>, Potter?’ </p><p>He might not have recognized Blaise when he first appeared in the Great Hall, but Harry would recognize that particular inflection in his voice anywhere. </p><p>‘Good morning to you too, Blaise,’ Harry grins viciously. </p><p>He knows it’s not even six in the morning in England, but Harry didn’t sleep last night. There’s a rush of adrenaline that always hits him in the first few days of working a case, and it usually makes him restless enough to pace around his suite. Besides, as far as he’s concerned, Blaise deserves to be woken up at the crack of dawn with an international Floo call for the absolute hell he’s put Harry through these past few days.</p><p>‘Oh, for fuck’s sake-’ Blaise growls, and wanders out of view before reappearing in a very nice-looking dressing gown. He’s not wearing his cosmetic charms today, and there’s a thin line of stubble ghosting over his chin. ‘What if I’d had someone over?’</p><p>‘You don’t do sleepovers,’ Harry says brightly, earning himself a poisonous look. ‘You gave me a very tight timeline, Blaise, so sit your pretty arse down and cooperate.’</p><p>Blaise sighs resignedly, seeming to give up on his Saturday lie-in, and drops into a cross-legged position in front of his fireplace. ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘What did you find?’</p><p>‘Nothing,’ Harry says. ‘Nothing in Brussels, nothing in Paris. No one’s seen or heard from Draco in over a week, and there’s no sign of a struggle, no trace magic anywhere. And in my experience, there’s always <em>something</em>.’</p><p>Blaise narrows his eyes slightly but says nothing.</p><p>‘What the hell is going on, Blaise?’ Harry demands. ‘Why am I really here? Why do we have jurisdiction on Draco’s disappearance? I’ve seen nothing hinting at wandless magic or spell modification in any of Draco’s work.’</p><p>Blaise rubs his hand over his face tiredly. It looks like he hasn’t slept either, but there’s a lack of bruises and lipstick-marks on his body that suggests it’s not a lover that’s been keeping him up. </p><p>‘It’s not Draco we have jurisdiction over,’ he replies at last. ‘It’s Lucius.  He’s been working with a faction of neo-Death Eaters to create a complex Time-Turner which can roll back years. Decades, maybe. I’m sure you can imagine what they want to do with something like that.’</p><p>A sliver of ice slides down Harry’s spine. He knows all too well what a Time-Turner can do. Harry and Hermione had managed to save Sirius and Buckbeak with a Time-Turner that only went back hours - and they were just children with barely enough time to organize or plan anything. If the neo-Death Eaters got their hands on a Time-Turner that could turn back years - they could go back and change the war, save the Horcruxes. They could make sure that Harry never died in the Forbidden Forest. That he never defeated Riddle at the Battle of Hogwarts.</p><p>‘Yes, exactly,’ Blaise says. ‘For the past few years, we haven’t really been concerned with their efforts, since they’ve been pretty consistent at blowing up each attempt. But then last month a modified Time-Turner went missing from the Department of Mysteries. It isn’t functional, of course - hasn’t been since the attack of ‘96 when you and your friends wrecked the Time Room.’</p><p>Harry bristles. ‘I’ve written three official apologies to the Department of Mysteries, Blaise.’</p><p>Blaise’s smile is a lazy, slanting thing. As bedraggled and tired as he is, Blaise still is a little too handsome to look at for very long. ‘It’s no skin off my nose, Potter,’ he shrugs. ‘I don’t think they should exist anyways. They’re too dangerous if used in the wrong hands - and looking at history, all hands can become the wrong hands.’</p><p><em>For the Greater Good</em>, Harry thinks, and shudders.</p><p>‘At any rate,’ Blaise continues, ‘my sources say that Lucius took the modified Time-Turner with him to Brussels. My best guess is he’s kidnapped Draco in an attempt to drag him into the fold, same as before. I don’t know why though - Draco’s made it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with Lucius or his fanatic tendencies.’</p><p>Something in the back of Harry’s mind clicks into place. ‘Merlin-sodding-<em>Christ</em>,’ he utters. ‘The Vanishing Cabinet. The fucking Vanishing Cabinet.’</p><p>‘What?’ Blaise frowns. ‘Potter, I have not had my morning coffee - make an attempt at coherency, <em>please</em>.’</p><p>Harry’s blood pounds in his ears. He hopes he’s wrong - <em>god,</em> he hopes he’s wrong. ‘Lucius has a broken but very powerful magical artefact,’ he says, ‘and he needs someone with experience in fixing powerful magical artefacts. Wouldn’t a Vanishing Cabinet qualify as a powerful magical artefact?’</p><p>Blaise curses heavily. ‘He’s going to try and force Draco to fix the Time-Turner.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So many feelings!<br/>Looking for Malfoy will continue in the next episode, featuring: Paper trails! Paperwork! Nepotism and corruption! Pining! Narcissa being weird!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. paper has a memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There is still half a cabinet’s worth of files to root through. Harry knows they will be just as unhelpful as the first half, but he has to try. <br/>For Draco, he has to try.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Blaise sends over the Department’s files on Lucius’s involvement with the Time Turner in a shrunken filing cabinet, delivered by one extremely irritated eagle-owl that looks to be Blaise’s personal bird rather than a Ministry-allocated one. Harry has to appease her with jellied mice ordered up from reception before she’s willing to stop pecking at his fingers.</p><p>It’s arduous work, looking through the files. It reminds Harry of those long, dreary days on desk duty before he got assigned Prentis and was transferred back into the field. Blaise’s notes are well recorded, at least, and more thorough than anything he’s seen come across his desk during his days as an Auror. But these are Unspeakable files, so they focus more on the technical aspects - the particular spells used, the technical work, the ingredients and components that failed to stabilize. The neglected mug of tea grows cold at his elbow until he has to Vanish its contents and brew himself a new mug, only to forget its existence as the hum of work drags him under once more. </p><p>Harry sorts through reports and papers and notes and records and long-form analyses, searching instead for the thin trail that will show him not <em>what</em>, but <em>where</em>. There are pieces missing from the puzzle - chunks of information that have been redacted or else not included. The documents keep referring to the records of the trial - <em>closed and sealed</em> - and the Auror investigation. </p><p>When Harry’s eyes start to burn uncomfortably from staring at the same report for too long, he takes a self-inking quill and some parchment out onto the balcony and writes a stack of letters to officially request information from the Aurors who worked Lucius’s case all those years ago. At least one of them should be able to point him in the right direction.</p><p>There’s a summer storm sliding in from the East. Harry watches the dark clouds cover the late afternoon sun, dragging shadows over the shining city. The air is laced with petrichor. A memory comes to him, unbidden, and he recalls a flash of cold hands and breathless laughter and standing pressed up against Draco beneath a copse of trees as sheets of icy rain come crashing down. Harry presses his fingertips against the corners of his eyes and takes in a deep breath.</p><p>He clears away the little table on the balcony and takes his things back inside just as the first droplets start hitting the floor. There is still half a cabinet’s worth of files to root through. Harry knows they will be just as unhelpful as the first half, but he has to try. </p><p>For Draco, he has to try.</p><p>He’s just about to sit down and tackle the next stack of papers when the door to his suite swings open. Pansy strides in, sporting extremely large sunglasses and an armful of what appears to be takeout.</p><p>‘I hope you’re feeling as miserable as I am, Potter,’ she announces, slamming the door closed behind her. ‘But fear not - I bring sustenance to ease your discomfort and suffering.’</p><p>Harry swears he already told reception he doesn’t want to be disturbed today - but this is Pansy-fucking-Parkinson, who is second only to Hermione with her ability to bulldoze her way to what she wants. She probably bullied the front desk until someone gave her the password to his hotel suite. Or maybe she just broke in. The Slytherins have always been irritatingly good at lock-picking.</p><p>‘Pansy,’ he sighs, ‘I’m working.’</p><p>Pansy sets the paper tray of food down on the table and pulls her sunglasses off, tucking them into the vee of her t-shirt. She scans the mess of scattered papers and the mugs of cold tea. </p><p>‘Circe’s tits, Potter,’ she frowns. ‘Don’t you get hangovers?’</p><p>‘I didn’t drink a bottle of Ogden's, Pansy,’ Harry says, glancing up at her, ‘unlike some people.’ He looks down at the work spread out over the table. ‘I have to get back to work.’</p><p>Pansy’s eyes narrow dangerously. ‘Nope,’ she says decisively. ‘We’re not doing this.’</p><p>She pulls out her wand and flicks it at the mess around Harry’s room. The papers stack themselves neatly and fly over to the counter, settling in neat piles beside the complimentary tea-and-coffee set. The filing cabinet makes a soft popping sound as it grows tiny little clawed feet, and it scurries over after the files before hunkering down.</p><p>Pansy lays the food out on the now-cleared table and waves her wand over it, lifting the Stasis charm. She has the worst taste in junk food. The absolute worst. Curry should not be insulted in this manner. Harry’s fairly sure his grandmother is about to rise up from the grave and box his ears for letting anyone feed him this. He’s read enough of her extremely colourful cookbooks to know her opinions on <em>fusion Indian</em> - not that chips and curry count as fusion cuisine. </p><p>‘Eat,’ she says, dropping into the chair opposite him.</p><p>Harry eyes her suspiciously. Pansy expresses her affection in many forms, mostly through the forced consumption of strong liquor, but she doesn’t do house visits and she doesn’t <em>feed</em> her friends. </p><p>Pansy stares back at him defiantly, arching her eyebrows. She transfigures Harry’s saucer into a fork and stabs it into the chips, pushing the steaming tray over to Harry’s side of the table. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a folded-up square of lilac paper. </p><p>Harry recognizes the stationary immediately. ‘Did Daphne put you up to this?’ he asks.</p><p>‘Of course she did,’ Pansy replies. She waves the piece of paper.  ‘She gave me a list of questions to go through.’</p><p>Harry sighs. ‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Seriously.’</p><p>Pansy snorts her disbelief. ‘Eat your curry chips and let me read this stupid list out to you.’</p><p>Harry lifts his hand in defeat and pulls the nearest tray towards him, ignoring the curry chips in favour of what is attempting to be fried chicken.</p><p>Pansy clears her throat. ‘Have you slept more than five hours the past two nights?’ she reads. </p><p>‘Um.’ He’s not really been counting. ‘Maybe?’</p><p>‘That’s a no,’ Pansy says, tapping the list with her wand. ‘Have you eaten more than one meal in the past three days?’</p><p>‘Maybe? I don’t know.’</p><p>Pansy looks up from her list and levels a scathing look at Harry. ‘Really, Potter,’ she says dryly. ‘Your eyebags could have their own postcode.’ She returns to the list. ‘Have you been taking any time off from work?’</p><p>Harry bristles instantly. ‘Of course not - Draco might be in danger.’</p><p>‘Have you reached out for backup or support?’ Pansy asks, tapping the list twice more with her wand. </p><p>‘Yes,’ Harry replies, thinking of the letters on their way across the Channel, and of Blaise’s grumpy eagle-owl. ‘I’m coordinating. Delegating. Letting you bully me into eating chips and curry,’ he adds, pointing at the offending tray. ‘This is blasphemy. You know that, right? I can feel my ancestors turning in their graves.’</p><p>Pansy grins wolfishly and flips him off. Her nails are painted midnight blue and filed to a threatening point. ‘Next question,’ she drawls. ‘Have you been consuming any substances - coffee? Alcohol? Dreamless sleep? Oh, I can answer that - coffee <em>and</em> alcohol. But no Dreamless Sleep - otherwise you wouldn’t look so shit.’ She flashes him a cheeky wink. </p><p>Harry mutters an obscenity around a mouthful of his very dry, very tasteless fried chicken. </p><p>‘Don’t be a sourpuss, Potter,’ Pansy laughs. ‘I don’t hold an intervention for just <em>anyone</em>.’</p><p>-</p><p>This is the second intervention Hermione’s held. She’s brought Rosie over to Grimmauld Place as ammunition in her assault on Harry’s overwhelming guilt. It’s difficult to dodge her questions when he’s got an armful of adorable, gap-toothed toddler.</p><p>‘Ron tells me you’ve been getting hit with hexes and curses more often,’ Hermione frowns. </p><p>His partner, Prentis, is a shrewd old thing, well-seasoned and always level-headed in a crisis, and Harry’s gotten rather fond of her, so he usually does a few stupid things to keep her out of harm’s way. Besides, he’s the best Auror on the force at wordless casting, and he’s already developed a few shortcuts for the more complex defensive spells. If he can cast faster than Prentis, why shouldn’t he move first? </p><p>‘I’m fine,’ Harry says. He gives Rosie a smacking kiss on the cheek and peels her sticky hands off his hair, wincing as she takes a few strands with her. ‘Honestly. This is just what it’s like, being an Auror.’</p><p>Harry doesn’t tell her that he’s drinking heavily every other night just to knock himself into a state of blurry bliss that nearly resembles sleep. He doesn’t tell her that, in those long sleepless nights, his mind churns away with awful images of the victims he’s seen, the ones he can’t rescue, doesn’t tell her that even days after a duel, he can still hear the crack of hexes echoing in his mind like bolts of lightning striking the earth.</p><p>‘I don’t mean that,’ she sighs, leaning forwards to rescue Harry’s hair from her daughter’s grasp. ‘You’re burning the candle at both ends. I know you’re young, and single, and popular and this is just, I don’t know, a quarter-life crisis or whatever Ron says it is. But I don’t think you’re happy. I don’t think it’s healthy.’ </p><p>Harry knows she’s never been a fan of his sleeping around, and really, he never feels anything for his partners anyways, not the way he feels about Draco. But he’s trying to move on as best as he can, and with his nights as long and sleepless as they are, he needs to fill them with <em>something</em>. But he can’t tell her that. She’s worried enough about him already.</p><p>‘This is going to catch up sometime,’ she tells him, ‘and you’re going to get hurt.’</p><p>‘Hermione,’ Harry says, reaching out to take her hand in his. He smiles warmly at her. He hates these interventions, but he adores her, and he loves Rosie with every last bit of his tired old heart. ‘It’s going to be fine.’</p><p>-</p><p>Hermione is right, of course. Harry does get hurt.</p><p>He gets injured so many times at work that he has an assigned Healer and a reserved bed in the Spell Damage ward.</p><p>Draco visits Harry every single time he ends up in St Mungo’s. He comes with flowers, a box of fancy chocolates, and a scathing remark. </p><p>‘You should really think about acquiring a survival instinct,’ he drawls, when Harry gets hit across the chest with a severing curse. ‘I hear they’re on offer down at Flourish &amp; Blotts.’</p><p>‘I do recall peripheral vision being part of the average wizard’s biology,’ he sighs, when a witch happened to figure out Harry’s blind spot and used it to nearly incinerate his arm. ‘Congratulations on evolving out of such primitive things.’</p><p>He gets burned so badly the only thing he can wear are bandages while the potions take effect. Hermione hasn’t stopped crying the entire time and Ron can’t even bear to be in the same room, but Draco strolls in, casts a casual eye over Harry’s blistered, raw wounds and scoffs. </p><p>‘If you’re making an attempt to shake your moniker, Boy-Who-Lived, you’re doing a terrible job at it,’ he grins. ‘Valiant effort though.’</p><p>One attack leaves him covered in harrowing scars down the back of his skull and neck. The wounds make even the Healers blanch, but Draco looks Harry straight in the eye, insults his hospital buzzcut and hands him a hair-growing potion. </p><p><em>Gallows humour</em>, Draco called it once.</p><p>The only time Draco gets serious about it is when they’re in Andromeda’s garden, watching Teddy fly on his first practice broom on a hot summer’s afternoon. Harry runs feverishly warm these days, his magic thundering in his veins. At some point the heat gets too much for him and he peels his shirt off his sweat-soaked back. It’s only when he notices Draco staring at him that he remembers - he’s got so many scars these days that his dark skin is latticed with silver and pink lines.</p><p>Draco meets his gaze for a second, and though he schools his expression as masterfully as befits the heir of the house of Malfoy, Harry can see the devastation in his eyes - that horrible, yawning sorrow that he’s seen in Hermione’s face and Ron’s and sometimes Andromeda’s, when she glimpses the many scars on his wrists and forearms. Except this hurts the way none of that hurt, because this is <em>Draco</em>, who sat with him beneath the moonlight, who smells like lemon and mint and cedarwood, who is the centre of Harry’s universe, the master of the gravity that pulls Harry back to shore, again and again, no matter how far out he drifts. </p><p>‘If you die before my qualification, Harry,’ Draco says, his voice forcibly light, ‘I will go into the Forbidden Forest, find the Resurrection Stone, bring you back, and hex you right down to hell.’</p><p>Harry presses his palm against his sternum, where a faded, pink lightning-bolt spreads branches out toward his ribs - the old Killing Curse blow that helped him win the war. ‘I’ll try and be more careful.’</p><p>Draco hums. ‘Promises, promises.’</p><p>‘I did promise you, Draco,’ Harry says quietly. ‘The same promise you made me at the Manor.’ </p><p>Draco turns to look at him, his eyes wide, and this is perhaps the first time they’ve said it aloud, this secret, silent beast that floats between them, this hidden message wrapped away in confectionary and colourful foil wrapping. He smiles, and it is a bittersweet thing of both sadness and unbearable fondness.</p><p>‘Alright, Harry,’ Draco says. ‘Then for me, just for me, stay alive.’</p><p>- </p><p>Harry gets a letter from one Senior Auror Marsters in response to his request, that very same evening.</p><p><em>I’m not sure how many of us that worked on the Malfoy case are still alive,</em> the letter reads<em>, but I’m happy to chat with you about it. I’ll be in France on Tuesday - holidaying with the wife, second honeymoon and all that tosh. I can drop by while she does the shopping. Shouldn’t take long, it was very open-and-close.</em></p><p>Harry frowns at the Auror’s neat, slanting script. He checks the address again, noticing that it’s been owled from a private address. It’s unusual for an Auror of this seniority not to go through the correct channels. Maybe it’s nothing, but something tugs at the base of Harry’s spine.</p><p><em>Something’s wrong</em>, it whispers to him. <em>Something’s not right about this.</em></p><p>‘Constant vigilance,’ Harry mutters, rolling his eyes at his own paranoia, and pens out a quick message in return. <em>Mad-Eye would be proud</em>.</p><p>Marsters’s owl is a lovely, speckled girl. She waits patiently for him to finish writing, and she does not peck at Harry’s fingers, unlike <em>some</em> people’s awful, vindictive birds. He gives her three jellied mice as a reward, and then allows her to groom his mane of messy hair. He feels a strange twist in his gut as he watches her fly off into the night, and wonders if it’s in anticipation or dread.</p><p>-</p><p>This time when Harry drops by Narcissa’s apartment, he brings lilies and a bottle of pastis. Narcissa frowns at the lilies, but visibly brightens as she catches sight of the liquor.</p><p>‘Ah, wonderful,’ she says, lifting the bottle out of Harry’s grasp. ‘Shall we have a glass?’ </p><p>She leads him down the small corridor once more and into the airy living room. The bay windows are all open, and a lovely breeze sweeps in from the street, making the white curtains flutter gently. Someone is baking something sweet in the next apartment over, and Harry’s mouth waters at the scent. She pours them both a little pastis and water into delicate crystal glasses. She gestures for Harry to sit and passes him one of the glasses.</p><p>The drink is ice-cold, and the sweet aroma of liquorice fills Harry’s mouth. He used to absolutely abhor liquorice, associating it with the nasty, black sweets that usually sat, untouched, at the bottom of his bag of pick-and-mix. Draco was the one that converted him in the end, informing Harry that this was the <em>done thing for the French, you uncultured heathen</em>.</p><p>It isn’t the done thing for anyone aged under fifty, but the old-medicine taste of pastis has sort of grown on Harry.</p><p>‘The light is very good for entertaining guests,’ Narcissa says, gesturing around her living room like an empress indicating her domain. ‘I am so glad you’ve come.’</p><p>‘Well, it’s been a long time since I last visited properly,’ Harry says, bending his head in apology. </p><p>‘Ah, yes,’ Narcissa says, setting down her glass. ‘Then you have not seen the redecorations. Please,’ she says, rising to her feet in one graceful, liquid motion. ‘I must show you how lovely they are. Draco chose them, you see. He has such excellent taste.’ </p><p>In truth, Harry has always been a bit terrified of what a pureblood witch like Narcissa might do with a wizarding apartment, whether it would end up looking as cold and grim as Malfoy Manor or Grimmauld Place. In a way, he’s always seen her the way he first saw her, when she appeared at Lucius’ side - tall, foreboding, silent, beautiful in a way that belongs in a museum, locked away behind the glass. Now, she looks softer somehow, framed by the bright summer sun filtering in through the living room. </p><p>There are no dark colours here. Everything is made of pale wood, and the walls are all painted a pastel teal, decorated with bright, colourful paintings of lush, tropical jungles. Narcissa shows Harry all the clever things her kitchen is capable of, the cooling-box hidden in her pantry, the extension charms that allow her to store a cellar’s worth of wines next to her spices, and the cockerel-shaped egg boiler that Draco custom-ordered from George.</p><p>At this point, it’s turned into a complete tour of the apartment, so Harry obediently follows the middle-aged witch around. The guest bedroom is full of flowering plants, and there are enough potions textbooks spilling from the tall shelves for Harry to guess who usually occupies this space. Even as they move on, the familiar scent of lemon, mint and cedarwood lingers on Harry’s clothing. </p><p>The master bedroom is just as lovely as the living room. The furniture is made from a pale wood, and there are hand-woven rugs spread out underfoot over the carpeted floor, likely to protect Narcissa’s feet from getting cold on the long winter nights. </p><p>Harry wonders if perhaps it is the change in a person that makes one seek places of light and warmth, or if it is the warmth and light of a place that might change a person. He thinks about Draco, that first night at Costa’s, and his heart twists savagely in his chest. </p><p>This place is bursting from the seams with the amount of love that Narcissa has for Draco. There are photographs of him everywhere, and a painting hangs above Narcissa’s bed of a tiny blonde baby with familiar silver eyes, holding a felt rabbit in his pudgy hands. There is a magical photograph of Draco sitting on the bedside table. He’s standing next to an enormous statue of a mussel, and every so often he tips his head back and laughs uproariously. Harry recognizes it as a photograph he took on their trip to Zeeland, back in their early twenties. He recalls telling Draco <em>not to clam up</em>, and for some reason that awful pun tickled Draco pink.</p><p>Narcissa shows off all the magical plants hanging around her bathroom, and all the potions Draco’s brewed for her hair and her arthritis. She presses Harry to try out all the taps, smiling serenely as he gawks at the jets of pink-and-lilac water.  </p><p>‘Draco spares no expense for my comfort,’ Narcissa tells Harry. ‘He spends so much money. Money he should spend on himself. He’s such a good boy, Mr. Potter. My Draco always says the Malfoy money isn’t his, so he may as well spend it on me here. He spends it so that I never feel afraid or alone. I love him more than anything.’ Then, she looks Harry straight in the eye, and enunciates each syllable with precise care. ‘Do you understand, Mr. Potter?’</p><p>Harry’s eyes widen as a jolt of realization strikes through him. </p><p>‘Yes, Mrs. Malfoy,’ he replies. ‘I think I do.’</p><p>-</p><p>Michelle answers Harry’s Floo-call almost instantly. ‘<em>Oui</em>, Professor?’ she purrs, dropping to her knees next to the fireplace. ‘I was just about to close up for the evening. How can I be of help?’</p><p>Harry nods. ‘I’ll be quick, then,’ he says. ‘Have you got any of the accounts for the Malfoy estate? Draco always keeps records - he’s obsessed with book-keeping.’</p><p>Michelle’s forehead wrinkles. ‘Ah, no,’ she replies with a slight shake of the head. ‘I do not have it. But it should be with the Paris lawyer.’ </p><p>She stands, leaving Harry with only a view of her ankles as she walks briskly to her desk. He hears a cupboard slide open and click shut, and then Michelle’s feet make a return to the fireplace. She kneels down, places a card between the tongs, and tucks it expertly behind Harry’s ear. </p><p>‘<em>Et voila</em>,’ she announces.<em> ‘</em>His address.’</p><p>Harry smiles at Draco’s secretary. ‘Thank you.’</p><p>She flashes him a bright smile. ‘Of course.’ She tilts her head slightly, tapping her fingertip against her lips. ‘You have been to Mrs. Malfoy’s?</p><p>‘Yes,’ Harry replies. He has a sinking suspicion he knows exactly what’s going on with Narcissa, but he’d rather have confirmation before jumping to any conclusions. He’d learned it the hard way with Sirius - sometimes his instincts are just wrong. </p><p>‘But Draco is not there,’ Michelle says.</p><p>Harry presses his lips together. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Draco is not there.’</p><p>
  <em>He’s not anywhere.</em>
</p><p>-</p><p>The lawyer’s name is Anton Acquafredda, and he reminds Harry of Snape - if Snape had better personal hygiene, a better haircut, and a rather impressive goatee. He’s dressed in a smart grey three-piece suit, gold cufflinks gleaming at his wrists. A small milk snake winds its way around the high collar of his shirt. For the first time in years, Harry wishes he’d been able to keep his ability to talk to snakes. </p><p>‘I cannot personally disclose the details of the Malfoy account to anyone other than Draco Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy,’ Acquafredda says in clipped, perfect English. ‘You must understand, Professor, that Master Draco has been particularly careful with his personal affairs since the release of Lucius Malfoy. However,’ says the lawyer, holding up a finger, ‘he <em>has</em> given you Power of Attorney in the case that he is unaccounted for forty-eight hours. As such, all ledgers are now available for your inspection.’</p><p>Acquafredda waves his wand in a lazy semicircle above his head. Many black volumes fly from the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind him, and hover around him in a wide arc. Numbers are printed onto the front of each ledger in an indecipherable code, probably known only to the lawyer. </p><p>Harry tries not to balk visibly at the sight of them. He’ll never get through them in this lifetime.</p><p>Acquafredda seems to notice Harry’s expression of abject horror and seems to take pity on him. He waves his wand and spells a volume over to Harry. ‘This particular ledger will be of interest to you, I believe.’</p><p>Harry holds out his hands and lets the ledger fall into his palms. He gives its contents a brief once-over. The writing is printed by typewriter instead of by hand, each section organized chronologically and then alphabetically. It will be hard work, of course, given Harry’s shortcomings with numbers, but an organized ledger shaves off hours - <em>if not days </em>- from work.</p><p>‘Thank you,’ he says, looking up at the lawyer. The taut wire of tension in his shoulders eases off somewhat. ‘This is incredibly helpful.’</p><p>Acquafredda narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly. ‘Of course, Professor,’ he replies. ‘I am paid very well to assist Master Malfoy and his family, which, as I understand it, includes you.’ He rises from his seat, sending the rest of the ledgers back to their place with another wave of his wand. ‘I will be in the next room with my clients. Please, feel free to use my study.’</p><p>He lowers his snake carefully onto the desk, and the familiar rolls itself into a ball of maroon-and-white coils, tongue flicking out to scent the air as it regards Harry with tiny, beady eyes.</p><p>‘If you require any assistance, please do let Antimony know,’ Acquafredda says, indicating the snake. ‘He will come fetch me.’</p><p>Harry’s not entirely sure how to react to the fact that Draco’s lawyer is, apparently, a Parselmouth, but he thanks the unusual wizard with as much courtesy as he can manage before turning his attention towards the ledger. </p><p>It’s been a good few years since he’s had to look over any paper trails, so it takes a while for the gears to start turning - but once he does get started, Harry ends up completely absorbed in it, barely noticing the fading light beyond the office windows until he feels Acquafredda’s hand settle on his shoulder.</p><p>‘Professor,’ he says softly. ‘I apologise for interrupting, but my office is closing.’</p><p>Harry stands up quickly, heavy volume clasped in his hands. ‘Oh, hell, I’m so sorry,’ he says, feeling a hot band of redness begin to spread over the back of his neck and the tips of his ears. ‘I completely lost track of time.’</p><p>Draco’s lawyer awards Harry a polite, close-lipped smile. ‘I understand,’ he replies. </p><p>He places his hand on his desk, palm flat against the dark wood. The milk snake slithers across the desk and up onto his wrist, disappearing beneath his sleeve. Harry stares at the whole ritual in morbid fascination.</p><p>‘I guess I’ll come back tomorrow to finish looking this over,’ Harry says, holding out the ledger.</p><p>Acquafredda shakes his head. ‘There is no need,’ he says. ‘As a member of Master Malfoy’s family, you may take the ledger with you for inspection and return it whenever you are done with it. The ledger has a magical tracker, you see, which allows me to keep track of it.’</p><p>Harry thanks Acquafredda again, and offers another apology for overstaying his welcome, to which the man gives him a long look, and says something like, <em>you are not quite what one expects, Professor</em>, which Harry isn’t quite sure is a compliment, but you never know, with the wizarding upper class.</p><p>Harry Apparates directly to the hotel, deciding to put off dinner until he’s had a good look at the rest of the ledger. The payments for the redecorations start a few years ago and are all paid for in installments, but last year there was a large amount of money being reshuffled in the Malfoy accounts that far exceeds even the most generous of budgets. Draco was preparing to commission something extremely expensive - something that was intended to keep his mother safe even in his absence. Something that would have been unknown to the rest of the world, just like the existence of this leather-bound volume.</p><p>
  <em>What the hell did you put in your mother’s apartment, Draco? And why didn’t you tell me about it?</em>
</p><p>Harry opens the door to his suite and utters a low curse. Clearly, he’s going to have to have a conversation with hotel management about their security policy, because Daphne Greengrass is sitting on his hotel bed, looking very cross with him.</p><p>‘Harry James Potter,’ she pronounces, attacking each syllable with perfect accuracy. ‘I have a bone to pick with you.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please enjoy my wild variety of OCs.<br/>Coming up next: Daphne-f**ng-Greengrass; playing fast and loose with Potterverse rules of magic; fluff; angst; Auror-bashing.<br/>(Chapter 7 will be a little on the long side, so bear with me while I work through the chewy ooey gooey stuff. As always, I work un-beta'd and it is a hot flaming mess - like me!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. maybe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They don’t talk about it, but that’s alright.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Brief mentions of gore ahead. There's also a paragraph about being crushed under small spaces, so if you have claustrophobia this is going to be an unpleasant one.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time Harry meets Daphne Greengrass is at Goldren’s country house in Dorset. Draco’s moving out to Cornwall to open up his own apothecary, so Goldren’s having a big, no-expense-spared party for the newly-qualified Potions Master.  </p><p>Harry’s just returning from the bar with a drink for himself and Luna when he sees, belatedly, that Luna’s already got a new drink in her hand. A very tall, almost Luna-esque woman is standing by her side, balancing a glass of peach Bellini in the cradle of her fingers. She’s dressed in long, flowing robes of silvery lilac, and her long, golden hair is wound up into a messy bun. There are multi-layered hoops hanging from her ears, and they spin in mesmerizing patterns as she moves. </p><p>‘Oh, Harry!’ Luna says, waving him over. ‘Daphne’s gotten me a drink already.’</p><p>As Harry approaches, he realizes that the only similarity between the tall witch and Luna are their wardrobe choices. Her dark eyes are hawkish as she looks Harry over. He’s reminded, oddly enough, of McGonagall.</p><p>‘This is Astoria’s sister, Daphne Greengrass,’ Luna introduces, waving a hand between the two of them. ‘You remember Astoria, don’t you Harry? She was my roommate.’</p><p>‘Er,’ Harry says, scrunching up his forehead as he tries to match a face to the name.</p><p>He does remember Astoria, sort of, but she’s a dim smudge in his memory, a flash of dark hair and delicate cheekbones and haunting eyes, a quiet shadow at Luna’s elbow at the Ravenclaw table. He can’t recall seeing her at all in sixth year. </p><p>‘Nice to see you again, Harry,’ Daphne says, smiling with only the corner of her mouth. She extends her hand. </p><p>Harry slots the stems of both drink glasses through his fingers and shakes Daphne’s hand. As soon as Harry’s palm touches hers, a shock of energy snaps up his arm like he’s been electrocuted. He yanks his hand away with a wince. </p><p>Draco appears at Harry’s elbow as suddenly as though he’d Apparated there. ‘Are you alright?’ he asks softly, pressing his palm into Harry’s back. </p><p>Harry’s not quite sure exactly when Draco started standing taller than Harry, or when he started filling out his pointy bones, or exactly when he suddenly started looking like <em>this</em>, like someone who could swoop in and save Harry, instead of the other way around.</p><p>Draco turns his gaze upon Daphne, annoyance flitting over his face. ‘I thought I told you not to do that shit.’</p><p>Daphne tucks a curling wisp of her blonde hair behind her ear and takes a nonchalant sip of her champagne. ‘It’s a force of habit,’ she says, unrepentant. </p><p>‘What <em>was</em> that?’ Harry asks. He transfers one of the drinks back to his right hand, relishing the sensation of the cool glass against his burnt fingertips.</p><p>‘Diagnostic spell,’ Daphne explains. ‘Luna, love, do you mind holding this for a moment?’ She hands Luna her champagne flute and pushes up the narrow sleeves of her robes to her elbows. Her forearms are covered in tattoos - dark, intertwined runes shifting alongside each other over her pale skin. ‘I use these to read someone’s magical signature based on touch by passing a tiny amount of my magic into the other person and reading the vibrations, similar to how a wand measures its compatibility with a young witch or wizard.’</p><p>‘It gives you a lovely little tingle,’ Luna adds, and takes a sip out of Daphne’s glass.</p><p>Harry raises his eyebrows. ‘That wasn’t a <em>tingle</em>.’</p><p>‘Not to you, it wouldn’t be,’ Daphne says, regarding him thoughtfully. </p><p>‘Is there something wrong with me?’ Harry asks. </p><p>He looks down at his fingers and wiggles them experimentally. They seem fine enough, but maybe there’s residual curse damage from the last duel that didn’t get picked up by the Healers. It’s happened before.</p><p>‘Not <em>wrong</em> exactly,’ Daphne says. ‘Just different. I am curious, though. Harry, would you indulge me in something?’</p><p>‘Daphne,’ Draco says warningly.</p><p>Daphne sighs and waves him off with a curt flick of her wrist. She doesn’t quite move in the same languorous motions as Pansy or Blaise - she’s brutal, precise, and a little more than a little frightening. Harry finds her instantly likeable.</p><p>‘Are you going to shock me again?’ Harry asks, grinning a little.</p><p>‘No,’ she frowns at him, seeming a little offended. ‘Of course not. I’m not in the habit of torturing my patients.’</p><p>‘Patients?’ Harry repeats, raising his eyebrows.</p><p>‘She’s a Healer,’ Luna explains. ‘Specializes in blood curses and illnesses of the magical core. She got into it after Astoria started falling ill.’</p><p>‘We irritated some Dark wizard enough to warrant a blood curse, it seems,’ Daphne says, upon catching Harry’s confused expression. ‘Or perhaps it was someone who married into the family. We don’t know where it came from, and there’s no curse recorded like it. It made it rather difficult to treat. We went through maybe twenty Healers who said they couldn’t do anything for Astoria. One of them told us she wasn’t going to last beyond twenty.’</p><p>Harry feels a rush of sympathy for that small girl with the haunting eyes, of having a death sentence handed to you before you had even tasted life. He’s never lost anyone to the slow decay of disease. They were taken swiftly, brutally - he can't imagine mourning someone he loves while they’re still breathing.</p><p>‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says solemnly.</p><p>‘Oh, we’re quite alright now,’ Daphne tells him with a smile. ‘I’m still working on a cure, but between my research and Goldren’s treatments, Astoria’s as healthy as the next person. But we’re not talking about my sister. Will you Transfigure that glass in your left hand into a goldfish bowl for me, please?’</p><p>Harry raises his eyebrows at the bizarreness of the request, but it’s hardly a Herculean task. He can’t quite reach down to the holster strapped to his thigh, and the semi-formal robes Draco bullied him into wearing fall over his trousers in a way that makes the whole thing a hassle, so he just casts the spell wandlessly. The weight of the glass shifts considerably as it swells into a spherical bowl, and Harry nearly drops it as he loses his balance.</p><p>Draco rolls his eyes and takes the other drink out of Harry’s hand. ‘You can ask for help, you know,’ he reprimands. </p><p>‘I was fine,’ Harry retorts, steadying the bowl in both hands. </p><p>Draco shakes his head in exasperation, but the corners of his mouth are tugging upwards into a smile. ‘Well, Daphne?’ he says, glancing at their old classmate. ‘Are you pleased with your experiment?’</p><p>‘Hm,’ says Daphne. Her eyes travel from the Transfigured glass bowl to Harry’s face, and then over to Draco. ‘Alright, then, Harry. My hours are Wednesdays from two and Saturdays from eleven. You will show up promptly on time.’</p><p>‘Uh, my schedule-’ Harry starts, but is cut off with another curt wave of Daphne’s hand.</p><p>‘If your employers have any issue with this,’ she says, ‘I will ensure that Robards is no longer welcome at any benefit, gala, or ball for the next five years. I’m sure the Head Auror would hate to endanger his public standing, so close to election season.’</p><p>Harry grins. ‘Merlin, Daphne. You had me worried there for a moment that the Sorting Hat should’ve had you for Ravenclaw.’</p><p>‘Don’t let her fool you, Harry,’ Draco sighs. He links his arm through Harry’s elbow and leans over to tap his wand on the rim of the goldfish bowl, returning it back to its original form. ‘Just be grateful she uses her Slytherin powers for good.’</p><p>-</p><p>‘You will hand me that volume this instance,’ Daphne demands, ‘or I will ban you from the Yuletide Wizarding War Orphans’ Benefit this Christmas.’</p><p>Harry sighs, sitting down at his table with the Malfoy family ledger still clasped in his hand. She’s snatched his work straight out of his hands before, and he’s not about to let that happen with Draco’s life on the line.</p><p>‘Daphne, I’m working.’</p><p>‘Oh, I heard,’ Daphne says, pulling a lilac envelope from her pocket. She waves it at Harry accusingly. ‘Work. The very same work that was responsible for placing you in Diagon Alley on-’</p><p>‘<em>Daphne</em>,’ Harry says exasperatedly. He’s running on empty at this point and he hasn’t got time for this. They used to have this argument all the time.</p><p><em>You’ll burn out</em>, Daphne used to tell him, and she didn’t mean it the way Hermione meant it, because apparently Harry could literally burn himself into cinders if he wasn’t careful, and the melting glass and burnt sheets was only the beginning of how bad things could get. </p><p>There are dams built around each person’s magical core. It takes a lot of time and effort to learn how to siphon off a witch or wizard’s power into a spell - usually through gestures with a conduit, such as a wand, and a few syllables. That is why wordless and wandless spells are so difficult. But Harry… Harry’s <em>different</em>. </p><p>A Horcrux is not something normally meant to fit inside of a living creature, let alone a person, but Harry lived with that cursed sliver of Tom Riddle’s soul inside of him for more than a decade. The only way that Harry’s magical core could survive the onslaught was to adapt, to follow ancient channels built into the blueprint of magic itself. He doesn’t have any dams or protections surrounding his magical core, allowing it to grow and grow until it overflows in all directions. </p><p>It makes him powerful - but it makes him vulnerable too. </p><p>Daphne tosses the envelope onto the bed. ‘Let me see your Anchors,’ she demands.</p><p>Harry frowns at her. ‘If I let you see my Anchors, will you let me review this damn ledger?’</p><p>‘You can look at the ledger <em>after</em> I see your Anchors,’ Daphne informs him, which is as close to a compromise as she’s going to get. She raises her eyebrows and nods pointedly at his forearms.</p><p>‘Fine,’ Harry relents. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls them up to his elbows, revealing the interlocking spheres tattooed on his forearms in black ink. </p><p>Daphne might be a horrible, manipulative bully, but she is undoubtedly the best Healer that Harry knows. She came up with a solution for his condition that wouldn’t only accommodate his magical sensitivity, but could also sharpen it into a tool. It’s pretty simple, really - give Harry something to focus on that is loud enough so that it drowns the background noise out. A shield. An anchor. </p><p>The tattoos took a total of five hours to complete. Harry recalls falling asleep halfway through the process and then waking up to the bizarre sensation of another person’s magical signature thrumming in his veins, skittering over his own magic like snowflakes drifting over dark water. </p><p>It’s become a comfort, a phantom hand pressed on the small of his back, an invisible embrace that shields him from the onslaught of the world’s pinprick-sharp magic. He learned, over time, how to adjust the intensity of the magical signature and make it a filter instead of a shield. It allowed him to pick up on spells and curses than the average Auror wouldn’t even notice - and it made him one of the best trackers on the force.</p><p>Daphne rises from her seat on Harry’s bed and strides over to the table. She drags the other chair over, turning it to face Harry before dropping gracefully into it. She taps her wand against the spheres on Harry’s left arm, and then watches closely as each sphere glows brilliant crimson, before fading back to black.</p><p>‘You haven’t modified them,’ Daphne notes, sounding pleased. </p><p>‘I haven’t needed to,’ Harry replies. </p><p>‘Hm,’ says Daphne. She puts her wand away. ‘But you’re still not sleeping enough. And you haven’t been eating properly.’</p><p>‘Well, what the fuck were you expecting, Daphne?’ Harry snaps. He slams the ledger down on the table and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. ‘Of course I can’t fucking eat or sleep or think straight. The man I love has been missing for nearly two weeks and is probably being tortured by his abusive, ex-convict father as we speak. So please, forgive me if I’m not sticking to your <em>magical hygiene program</em>.’</p><p>Daphne looks at him steadily. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘That is why I was worried about you.’</p><p>Harry feels a wash of shame fall over him. Of course, she knows. She’s his <em>Healer</em>, for Merlin’s sake. He scrubs his fingers through his hair and exhales in a quick, short burst. </p><p>‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s just- I feel so fucking helpless. Useless.’</p><p>‘Hm,’ says Daphne. She clasps her hands in her lap, leaning back into her chair. ‘I do understand you, Harry. When Astoria first got sick, I felt the same way. Helpless. Useless. Like I could do nothing but watch her die.’</p><p>Harry glances up at her. ‘But you cured her,’ he says softly. ‘You saved her.’</p><p>Daphne smiles at him lopsidedly. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I did. And <em>I’m </em>not the Chosen One, saviour of the wizarding world, defeater of the Dark Lord himself.’ She reaches forward and takes his hand, squeezing it slightly. Her palms are soft, and her grip is strong. ‘And, unlike a certain buffoon I am inordinately fond of, I was never considered the best tracker in the DMLE.’</p><p>‘Bloody hell, Daphne,’ Harry chuckles. ‘You know I hate it when you manipulate me into feeling positive about life.’</p><p>‘It was your choice to associate with Slytherins,’ Daphne replies with a wink.</p><p>-</p><p>Harry storms back into his office, his anger still burning in his veins as he slams the door behind him with a satisfying thud. ‘If one more person asks me why I associate with Death Eaters,’ he rages, shucking off his outer robes and flinging them unceremoniously at his chair, ‘I will hex them into oblivion.’</p><p>‘Hullo Potter,’ Prentis says cheerfully. ‘Petition went well, I take it?’ </p><p>Harry’s partner leans back in her chair, a fat case file balanced on her knees as she props her feet up on her desk. One of her feet is wrapped in a cast to keep its shape steady while the bones grow back. She was hit with a particularly nasty marrow-eating curse a few days back, and Harry ended up removing all the bones in her leg in a desperate attempt to stop the curse from spreading. </p><p>Harry perches on the edge of her desk and flicks her brand-new shinbone. ‘Don’t be a smarmy git,’ he says. </p><p>‘Don’t be a sore loser,’ Prentis laughs, folding her arms over her chest. ‘You lost the coin toss, fair and square.’</p><p>Harry levels a look at her, but he can already feel his anger fizzle out. He’s pretty sure Robards paired him with Prentis to slow him down, but they actually work quite well together. Prentis might be a good foot smaller than everyone else, and she’s slow on the draw, but she’s got a mind sharper than half the department put together, and she knows how to keep Harry cool. </p><p>‘I almost miss the days where people were afraid to get me angry,’ Harry tells her.</p><p>Prentis snorts. ‘I don’t. Marie gets to buy me nice mugs now because she knows you won’t blow them up. Speaking of significant others,’ she adds, closing the file and setting it aside, ‘are you off to see that nice boy of yours this weekend? You didn’t bring your weekend bag today.’</p><p>Harry slips off Prentis’s desk and heads back to his desk to clear up. He’s done his debrief with Robards, it’s the bloody weekend, and he’s told everyone to leave him the fuck alone unless it was an emergency and there were no other Aurors in the building. He’s going to have a nice weekend with Draco, DMLE be damned.</p><p>‘Draco and I aren’t a couple,’ he reminds Prentis. ‘We’ve had this conversation.’</p><p>‘Su-ure,’ she says, and when he glances at her she’s got a smarmy little smirk on her face.  </p><p>‘Merlin, Prentis,’ Harry sighs. ‘Must you be such an obstinate wanker?’</p><p>She winks at him. ‘Only on Tuesdays and Fridays. Where’s your weekend bag then?’</p><p>Harry stares at her for a while, but as always, he cracks. ‘I don’t need to take a weekend bag,’ he sighs. ‘I’ve got stuff at his.’</p><p>‘Course you do,’ Prentis grins wolfishly. ‘Give my love to the boy.’</p><p>Harry shakes his head as he heads out the door. ‘I hope those bones grow back into a hoof.’</p><p>‘See you Monday!’ Prentis calls after him cheerfully.</p><p>-</p><p>Harry loves Draco’s house. </p><p>It sits on the top of a hill with a view of a nearby beach, with a tiled roof, white-washed walls, a delightful brick chimney, and a cerulean post-box out front which Harry helped paint by hand. If Harry turns to the left, he can see the moonlight reflecting off the sea, and the foam glowing silver over the briny water as the waves rush towards the sandy shore. There is a copse of trees just behind Draco’s house, and beyond that, the steeple of a church that rings out just a little too loudly every Sunday. </p><p>He stands by the little iron gate and watches the loveliness of the light coming from the windows spilling out over the bushes of lavender that grow in the small garden. The stone path curves slightly as it leads from the gate to the front door, and Harry’s boots click over the wet tiles as he walks through the garden. Tomorrow morning, the bushes of honeysuckle and wood anemone will come alive with bees and butterflies. For now, the garden is silent. The perfume of wildflowers drifts gently over Harry as he climbs the three steps up to Draco’s front door. The doorknob is shaped like a starburst, the metal cold to the touch.</p><p>As Harry steps through the doorway, the wards welcome him home.</p><p>Draco’s living-dining space is cosy and warm, with the sofa tucked away just to the side of the dining table. With a good charm it can stretch to seat six, but tonight the wooden table is set for two. Rugs sprawl out over the carpeted floor, and an array of portraits and photographs hang from the wall. On the furthest side of the room, sliding glass doors open out onto the back garden, where Draco has his herb garden. </p><p>Harry can hear soft music drifting from the kitchen - <em>Draco loves to listen to the wireless when he cooks. </em>He shucks off his jacket and drops it over the back of a chair at the dining table, before heading towards the kitchen. Draco stands by the sink, filling up a tall pot with water. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dulling scar of his Mark. He still keeps it covered up in front of everyone else, and maybe he would still keep it hidden from Harry if it wasn’t for the fact that they’d both witnessed the worst of each other.</p><p>‘Hello,’ Draco says, glancing over his shoulder. </p><p>Harry wants to touch him so badly the force of his desire makes his palms burn.  ‘Do you need any help with dinner?’ he asks. </p><p>‘It’s in the oven,’ Draco says. ‘Pour me a glass of that,’ he says, indicating the open bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen table, ‘and we can go sit in the lounge while we wait.’ </p><p>Harry fetches the stemless glasses from one of the cabinets and pours the Merlot. Draco prefers white wine, but he always buys them red when Harry comes over, the same way he always makes Harry’s favourite things for dinner. They move out into the living room and sit on the sofa, Draco curling his bare feet beneath him while Harry lifts his feet up onto the footrest. They talk for a while, Draco rambling on at length about a new potion he’s developed that keeps hair tangle-free for weeks. He’s particularly proud of creating solutions to innocuous, everyday problems - it's what makes him different from every other Apothecary.</p><p>Harry complains about Teddy’s growing attitude and Prentis’s general smarminess while Draco keeps his fingertips splayed over the Anchor on Harry’s left forearm. He’s always been fascinated with them. <em>I can’t believe you had someone’s magical signature imprinted into your body,</em> he says, when Harry first reveals the tattoos to him. <em>That’s kind of intimate, isn’t it?</em></p><p>Harry will never tell him whose magical signature he chose. That would be too much like a confession, and Harry’s not quite sure he’s ready for that.</p><p>Dinner is lasagne, warm and luxurious, and pull-apart cheesy bread. Draco’s eyes are warm as he watches Harry lick the garlic oil off his fingers. They don’t talk about this gentle <em>maybe</em> that’s grown between them. Harry’s spent years learning how to pine, he does it so well - he doesn’t know what to do now that Draco’s started looking at him like this, like he wants to reach across the table and taste the garlic and tomato and basil on Harry’s tongue. Like he wants more than a <em>maybe</em>.</p><p>They don’t talk about it, but that’s alright.</p><p>They do the dishes together afterwards, like they always do, standing side by side at the sink. Artemis winds himself around Draco’s bare ankles, attempting to purr and meow at the same time. Draco’s laughter is as light as eider-down, and he leans into Harry’s space as he places a dish on the drying rack. He smells like mint, lemon and cedarwood. Like books and wool and fresh laundry. </p><p>Harry drops his head, leaning it on the curve of Draco’s shoulder. He closes his eyes. Draco’s scent envelops him.</p><p>‘Was it a rough day?’ Draco asks him softly. His voice vibrates through the places where their bodies are in contact. </p><p><em>Yes, it was, </em>Harry thinks. Some days he could drink half a bottle of firewhiskey and still taste the mix of duelling spells and Dark Magic. Some days he stands under the showers and wishes that he could wash all the blood off his hands, but he can’t save everyone, he’s not a Healer, he doesn’t know how to fucking sow people up again after they’ve been split open by hexes and curses, he just knows how to hurt. Today is worse than all those days put together.</p><p>‘You hate it when I talk shop,’ Harry murmurs.</p><p>There is a light squeak as Draco turns off the tap. He turns his head slightly, his lip brushing against Harry’s forehead. ‘Tell me about your day, Harry,’ he says, light and teasing like it’s an old inside joke.</p><p>It’s darling, it’s domestic, it makes Harry want to break down and cry and curl up in the safe embrace of Draco’s arms. He’s so in love it feels like a fucking Blasting Curse to his chest, but in a good way. </p><p>‘War orphanage got attacked on Wednesday,’ Harry sighs. ‘It’s an exploding curse of some kind, but the spellwork is complicated. It’s got… levels and triggers. Third time we’ve encountered its sort. I’ve been petitioning to have George take a look at it. He’s done similar work - but Robards won’t have it.’</p><p>‘Because Wicked Weasley’s not a qualified Cursebreaker?’ Draco asks. He’s listened to enough of Harry’s long-winded rants about Ministry bureaucracy to know where this conversation is going. </p><p>Harry growls in affirmation, lifting his head off Draco’s shoulder. He swivels around and leans back against the sink, folding his arms over his chest. Draco lowers his chin slightly and watches him through his long, pale lashes, a fond smile curving his lips upwards. Harry wants to kiss him. Harry always wants to kiss him, though, so he pushes through the urge with practiced ease.</p><p>‘It’s not like it’s against Auror policy,’ Harry frowns. ‘I’ve checked. They can just have George partner with a Cursebreaker. But apparently it rubs them the wrong way that George never finished at Hogwarts - <em>I </em>never finished at Hogwarts, those classist pricks. And what does any of it even matter if we can save people?’ Harry throws his hands in the air. ‘I don’t know why I became an Auror. They’re all a bunch of dusty old farts with a taste for misdirected violence.’</p><p>‘You know what I have to say about the matter,’ Draco hums. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind Harry’s ear, his fingertips brushing over the delicate spot there. ‘But you’re as stubborn as they come, and I’m not equipped to deal with that nasty saviour complex good old Albus instilled in you.’</p><p>‘I don’t have a saviour complex,’ Harry complains, catching Draco’s wrist.</p><p>Draco smiles at him. ‘Oh?’</p><p>‘I just… okay, fine, maybe I do, but what else am I supposed to do?’ he sighs. He turns Draco’s palm over and traces the callouses and burns left from long hours of potion-making. ‘I’m hardly a genius like you or Hermione. And I’m not very creative, like Ron and George are. I’m not good with plants or animals. I’m just good at fighting.’ <em>And killing</em>, he thinks darkly. </p><p>‘You’re good at <em>defending</em>,’ Draco says firmly. ‘And protecting. And you take care of people who need it, no matter what. And you’re good with Teddy and Rose and Victoire.’ </p><p>‘I know where you’re going with that, you sneaky little shit,’ Harry grins. Draco’s been trying to get him to quit the Aurors and go work at Hogwarts for years now. </p><p>Draco widens his eyes in a show of extremely false innocence. ‘And here I thought I was merely complimenting you. I was going to elaborate about how handsome and strong you are too - or perhaps I should stop while I’m ahead.’</p><p>‘You can’t flirt your way out of every argument,’ Harry laughs, pulling Draco close. He slings his arms around the other man’s hips, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands against the small of Draco’s back.</p><p>Draco braces himself on the sink, his hands bracketing Harry’s thighs. ‘Really?’ he smirks. ‘I’ve had remarkable success so far.’</p><p><em>Merlin,</em> Harry wants to kiss him. He wants to bury his soapy hands in Draco’s hair and tumble into bed with him, wants to make love to him until they forget the terrible history that ties them together, wants to wake up in the mornings next to him, wants to get down on his knees and ask for a forever he knows he doesn’t deserve.</p><p>Harry wants a lot of things. But he’s not had a great track record at getting any of the things he wants, and standing here in Draco’s kitchen, he thinks he has more than he deserves. So, he holds his love in his chest and smiles wordlessly at Draco. He doesn’t need a forever, when they have a <em>right now</em>, sweet and perfect and lovely, and he’s so happy he could fill the sky with it.</p><p>-</p><p>Happiness is a fickle thing. It has a way of packing its bags and leaving in the middle of the night.</p><p>The Aurors raid Draco’s office on what, by all accounts, should be a happy day. It is a mild, sunny afternoon in late July, and there are roses blooming in Draco’s garden. They confiscate all his expensive, rare ingredients. They tear apart his office, confiscate all his ledgers and books and recipes. They take his cauldron - the one Goldren gave to him, the one made from the shimmering inside of a meteorite. </p><p>Harry gets a tip about the raid as soon as he gets back into the Ministry. He’s had a long, horrible day of counting corpses at yet another bombing - <em>probably the same one as the orphanage</em> - and he has blood and human parts all over his boots. But then Percy runs into him, red-faced and sweating, and babbles out that someone’s filed a report about Draco’s apothecary - <em>Zacharias Smith is leading the taskforce, and you know he’s been itching for a promotion, oh, Merlin, Harry, I’m sorry. </em></p><p>Harry Apparates to Cornwall in time to prevent the Aurors from heading to Draco’s house to tear that apart as well. They have no warrant, no paperwork, nothing to authorize them - nothing but a single anonymous letter with garbled, nonsensical accusations.</p><p>Smith was terrified of Harry once, when he was prone to magical explosions, but now he’s convinced the Anchors have diminished Harry’s power - just like everyone else thinks it has. They have no idea that Harry could reach out and rip Smith’s magical core out of his chest, if he wanted to - and god, <em>does Harry want to</em>. </p><p>This isn’t an attack against Draco. Not really. Draco just happens to be the easiest target - the only person who won’t fight back. And Harry - well, Harry’s got a leash so tight around his neck he can’t do anything but watch the torture and destruction of the man he loves. </p><p>‘Sorry about that,’ says Smith with a sweetness so artificial it burns. ‘We have to follow all leads we get. Auror protocol and all that. You understand, don’t you, Malfoy?’</p><p>Draco stares at him mutely. His knuckles are white as he clutches at the countertop.</p><p>‘Thank you for your kind cooperation,’ Smith winks, and then heads out, the flock of Aurors following him.</p><p>As soon as the last person is out the door, Draco’s knees give out. He slumps against the counter, his eyes full of unshed tears.</p><p>‘I give up,’ he says, barely above a whisper. ‘I can’t do this anymore. If they want me gone, then I’m gone.’</p><p>-</p><p>It takes Draco exactly five days to close all his accounts, pack up his life, and move to Paris.</p><p>Harry stands outside the shuttered house and stares at the chimney, the letterbox, the small stone path that curves up to the door, and he tries not to listen to the sound of his heart breaking for the <em>maybe</em> that once lived here.</p><p>Now, there is nothing.</p><p>-</p><p>‘I’m afraid, Mr. Potter, that I cannot answer any of your questions directly concerning Lucius Malfoy.’ Marsters tears apart the third packet of sugar and pours it into his coffee. ‘There are certain magical contracts in place that prevent me from talking about the facts of the case, and anything else written down on the protected documents. I can’t tell you what Lucius was doing, the people he was involved with, or any of the schemes he had planned.’</p><p>Harry presses his lips into a thin line. He’d expected as much when he sat down to talk to the Senior Auror. </p><p>Marsters takes a sip of his coffee and sets it back down. ‘However,’ he says, glancing up at Harry through his wire-rimmed spectacles, ‘there’s nothing preventing me from talking about myself.’ And then he smiles, slow and deliberate, and pulls a cigarette case from the breast pocket of his jacket.</p><p>Harry huffs a surprised laugh. <em>The clever bastard. </em></p><p>‘Are you aware of the Ministry clean-up task force, Mr. Potter?’ Masters asks.</p><p>‘Yeah, sure,’ Harry says. ‘Kingsley wanted to root out blood-purists hiding in the Ministry. There was a whole team of people assigned to that.’</p><p>‘Myself included,’ Marsters nods. ‘We were responsible for tracking down the ministry officials who were working for Voldemort during the war. Since we’d already worked Lucius’s case, Kingsley assigned us to investigate the people he had dealings with. Lucius had his claws in many, many important people.’</p><p>‘I’m sure there were many,’ Harry replies with a crooked smile.</p><p>‘It was an extensive investigation,’ the middle-aged man says dryly. ‘Ate up seven years of my life before we got told the project was being pulled and defunded. I work at a desk now, Mr. Potter,’ Marsters continues. ‘It was marketed to me as a promotion to match my seniority, but really it’s them tucking me away in a little corner until I either die or retire. I think we came too close to finding out the truth - or perhaps we’d started to uncover the depth of the rot in the Ministry. But I’m afraid that’s all I can say on the matter of Lucius Malfoy.’</p><p>‘And your partner?’ Harry asks. ‘What happened to him?’</p><p>Marsters’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow of grief darkening his eyes for a sliver of a moment. ‘He was part of the team assigned to sweep the perimeter before the Diagon Incident.’</p><p>‘Fuck,’ Harry mutters. </p><p>He still has nightmares of being trapped beneath the rubble, of staring up into the impenetrable darkness, trying to find space to breathe with slabs of mortar and brick pressing down on him. He still sends flowers to Marie every year, still visits the memorial to seek out his ex-partner’s name among the listed victims of the explosion and feels that horrible surge of guilt that he lived, and so many did not. </p><p>‘Yes, precisely.’ Marsters drains the last of his coffee and sets it down on the table. He gestures at the waiter, summoning him over to collect the bill. ‘Tread carefully, Mr. Potter,’ he says, his eyes fixed on the approaching waiter. ‘The DMLE is a dangerous enemy to make.’</p><p>-</p><p>Draco is the first person Harry sees when he wakes up, after the Diagon Incident. He doesn’t say something funny, or make fun of Harry’s full-body cast, or even insult his hair. He just looks at Harry with swollen, reddened eyes, and lets out a little sob. That’s when Harry knows it’s enough.</p><p>When Ron and Hermione come to visit, he tells them that he’s quitting the Aurors.</p><p>Hermione bursts into loud, ugly sobs, and Ron hugs him so hard his rib cage nearly breaks a second time. Draco watches silently from his seat, but then he smiles at Harry, all tender and sweet, and Harry knows he’s made the right decision for once. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and are having fun with me so far. Sometimes I feel like relationships arrive at times when we aren't ready for them, and really that's what this fic is all about. </p><p>The next one is going to be a long chapter so it'll be in the works for a bit.<br/>Coming up next: more mutual pining, and detective Potter continues his investigation, discoveries are made, and a LOT of pain.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. progression</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry feels like he’s running out of time</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s there in the ledger, sitting between two innocuous payments for furniture - a massive lump-sum payment to a party marked down as LLSS. Harry digs around in the ledger until he finds out that LLSS stands for Lopez &amp; Lopez Secure Solutions, Antwerp Branch.</p><p>Harry leaves for Antwerp first thing in the morning. The wizarding quarter is hidden down an alley in the diamond district, a pocket universe tucked away in between the cobbled streets and dazzling buildings. He pulls his hair down over his scar and exchanges his gold-rimmed glasses for a pair of sunglasses, blending in easily with the crowd. He doesn’t have time for adoring fans today.</p><p>Lopez &amp; Lopez Secure Solutions is located in an old brick house that looks to have been someone’s home once, up a flight of narrow stairs winding up the side of the building. A menagerie of owls perch on the metal railing. Yellow, amber, and blue eyes watch Harry as he climbs the stairs and pushes open the door to the office.</p><p>The room beyond it is small and unassuming. There is a waiting area consisting of a leather sofa and a coffee table covered in generic-looking magazines, and beyond that a large wooden desk, behind which sit two identical-looking young men. The man on the right has his hair twisted back into neat braids, while the other wears his curls cropped close to his skull, his face partially obscured by a well-maintained beard. They both look up at the same time as Harry closes the door behind him. </p><p>‘Welcome to Lopez &amp; Lopez,’ the man with the braids says in a velvety-smooth American accent, flashing Harry a pearly smile. ‘I’m Guy and this is my brother Angel.’</p><p>‘How may we help you?’ asks the short-haired man.</p><p>‘I was wondering if you’d be able to answer a few questions,’ Harry says. He pulls his Unspeakable paperwork out of his pocket and un-shrinks it before handing it over to Angel Lopez. </p><p>Angel’s eyebrows rocket upwards. ‘<em>Puñeta</em>,’ he whistles. He hands the parchment over to his brother for inspection. ‘Never thought we’d meet you in person, Professor.’</p><p>‘You’re an absolute legend in the security business,’ Guy adds as he scans the paperwork in front of him with brutal efficiency. He rolls the parchment up and hands it over to Harry. ‘Your study on the efficacy of trigger-charms on safehouses? That’s our bible.’</p><p>‘We sleep with it under our pillow,’ Angel adds, nodding seriously. </p><p>Harry stares at them, wondering why he’s suddenly reminded of the Weasley Twins (which picks at old scars he’d rather leave alone), or why he feels like he’s back in the workroom in the Department of Mysteries, stuck with a bunch of swots who want to spend a perfectly good summer arguing the mechanics of time versus death. </p><p>It’s extremely disconcerting. </p><p>‘So,’ says Guy. ‘How can we help you?’</p><p>Harry drops into one of the seats facing the brothers. ‘I suppose you could start with explaining to me what Lopez &amp; Lopez does,’ he says, pulling off his sunglasses and tucking them in his shirt pocket.</p><p>‘We offer security solutions,’ Guy replies. </p><p>‘We were in school when the War ended,’ Angel explains. He interlocks his fingers and places his hands on the polished surface of his desk. ‘By the time we finished up our Cursebreaker apprenticeships, the hate crimes started up again. People were scared. And we realized we’re more interested in preventing curses than breaking them.’</p><p>‘We started out with charms that would alert the wearer if there was a hex or curse,’ Guy says. ‘Nothing fancy.’</p><p>‘Then we started hex-proofing houses,’ Angel adds. </p><p>Guy nods. ‘We also made black boxes four our clients to use - devices to record all spells cast in the vicinity. The more information we gathered with the black boxes, the better our products became.’</p><p>‘We’ve sold emergency portkeys, impenetrable doors and windows, wearable wards, protective charms - you name it.’ Angel counts off his fingers as he reels off the list, rings shimmering as he moves his hands. Harry can feel the quiet hum of the protective magic woven into them. ‘We try and keep a varied price range. People should be able to afford to be safe, y’know. But not everything we make is within the average witch or wizard’s budget.’</p><p>Harry pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and slides it over to them. ‘And what sort of product do you two offer that falls within this price range?’</p><p>Angel frowns at the scribbled figures on the paper while his brother peers over his shoulder at Harry’s near illegible writing. ‘There’s only one thing that matches this figure in our catalogue,’ he says, glancing up at Harry. ‘That would be the Lopez Panic Room.’</p><p>‘Are you familiar with panic rooms, Professor?’ Guy asks, plucking the paper from his brother’s fingers. He folds it neatly and places it on the desk. ‘They’re a Muggle concept, but every old wizarding house has something similar built into its core. A panic room is a fortified room to hide within, in case of an attack or storm. They’re usually designed to be impenetrable - steel walls, fingerprint scanners, all that stuff.’</p><p>‘Muggles call them safe rooms,’ Angel adds. ‘Our father had one built into the cellar of our house in Florida, y’know, for the hurricanes.’ He quirks an eyebrow and lifts his hands, palms spread. ‘So, we figured, hey, why not offer a panic room for magical attacks?’</p><p>‘We made a room that fits in a wizarding home of any size,’ Guy explains. ‘They’re impervious to hexes and curses, and we can set it up to provide as much food and water as our client needs. We usually make them undetectable too.’</p><p>‘We can’t recreate the complex magic that most school founders used to protect their buildings,’ Angel adds wryly. ‘I mean, we’re not that powerful. But we figured out a way to scramble the magical trace of the Lopez Panic Room, as well as the magical signature of anyone inside the room. Basically, even if you do figure out that someone’s got a Panic Room, you’re not going to be able to figure out where it’s physically located in their home.’ </p><p>‘Or at least, it should be near impossible,’ Guy shrugs. ‘We’re not perfect.’</p><p>Harry’s brow furrows slightly as he processes the information, stowing it away in the web he’s been crafting in his head. Another piece to add to the complex tapestry - another step closer to finding Draco. </p><p>‘I don’t suppose you tell me where the panic room is located in Narcissa’s apartment?’ he asks tentatively.</p><p>Angel shakes his head in response. ‘I’m afraid we can’t disclose private client information.’</p><p>‘We’re bound by magical contract,’ Guy adds. </p><p>‘We can’t actually provide you the skeleton-key charm either,’ Angel says. ‘Assuming that’s why you’ve come to speak to us.’</p><p>That, while disappointing, is hardly unexpected. The Lopezes would never be able to retain clients if they went around handing backdoors and skeleton keys to every Auror and Unspeakable who came knocking at their door.</p><p>‘But,’ Angel continues, holding up a hand, ‘as American wizards operating a business registered under MACUSA, American wizarding laws apply to us.’</p><p>‘Meaning,’ Guy interjects with a broad grin, ‘for the purposes of cooperating with official instructions, we <em>can </em>confirm that a Lopez Panic Room was indeed purchased by one Draco Malfoy to be installed in the apartment of one Narcissa Malfoy.’</p><p>‘And,’ Angel says, a smile growing on his face too, ‘we can tell you that the password is known <em>only</em> to Draco and Narcissa Malfoy.’</p><p>Harry nods in understanding. <em>Lucius cannot open the Panic Room without either Draco or Narcissa, which means that, if he is hiding there, he cannot get out without one of them using the password to unlock the room.</em></p><p>‘We can also provide you with leaflets explaining our products to you in detail,’ Angel adds, just as Guy slides open a drawer beneath the desk and pulls out a small booklet with the words <em>Lopez Panic Room Manual</em> printed on the front.</p><p>Harry takes the booklet from Guy and flips quickly through its laminated pages. </p><p>To call it a manual is an understatement. The booklet contains all the information on how the Panic Room works - its functions, the amount of days it can sustain people inside based on the number of people, the types of spells it can defend against. It’s not a key, but it might be enough for Harry to reverse-engineer one. </p><p> ‘Leaflet has a wide definition,’ Angel chuckles, and then winks exaggeratedly at Harry.</p><p>‘Thank you,’ Harry says. ‘Really. <em>Thank you</em>,’ he says emphatically, getting up from his seat. </p><p>Guy laughs. ‘Aw, Professor,’ he says. ‘It’s not like you saved all our half-blood asses by defeating magic Hitler or whatever. I figure we owe you this one.’</p><p>-</p><p>See, you’d think that defeating Lord-bloody-Voldemort twice as a child would be quite enough heroism for most people. </p><p>Or maybe that’s not enough.</p><p>Maybe you have to round up Death Eater after Death Eater until they’re all locked up in Azkaban. Maybe you have to reinvent magical tracking, or maybe pioneer a new system for infiltrating Death Eater safehouses. Maybe you learn Cursebreaking overnight when the Ministry budget won’t stretch to give you that extra bit of help that, quite frankly, should be in the fucking budget, but we’re not counting straws here, it’s fine. Maybe you have a few harrowing near-misses with death and collect so many scars that you forget how many you have.</p><p>No, that’s not enough.</p><p>But surely, <em>surely</em>, you’d think that being stuck under six feet of rubble and debris for three days with six broken ribs and a metal bar shoved through your torso is a sufficient level of sacrifice and heroism.</p><p>But you’d be wrong.</p><p>Because when Harry hobbles into the Ministry on crutches and hands in his two weeks’ notice, the anger and disgust levelled at him by the entire DMLE makes him feel as though <em>he</em> was the one who blew up Diagon Alley. </p><p>
  <em>Ungrateful little twat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Coward.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How dare he turn his back on us?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nobody likes a quitter.</em>
</p><p>‘You’re going to regret this,’ Robards tells him with what is probably meant to sound like concern but ends up sounding patronising.</p><p>Harry thinks about Marie’s face, blotchy with a month’s worth of tears, and Prentis’s desk, empty but for a vase of wilting flowers, and the memorial they’re building out in the ruins of Diagon Alley. He thinks of Draco’s hand wrapped tightly around his, the overly clean smell of the intensive care ward. He thinks of the other people lying in the beds of St. Mungo’s, the families crowded in the hallways, too exhausted for tears. He thinks about the ones who didn’t wake up. The ones who didn’t make it to the hospital at all. </p><p>‘No,’ Harry says. ‘I don’t think I shall.’</p><p>-</p><p>After Harry’s last day as an Auror, his friends throw a surprise party at Grimmauld Place. They hit him with a shower of confetti as he enters through the door and he nearly hexes their faces off for it. There’s cake and takeaway (much to Kreacher’s disapproval) and there are ugly paper streamers hanging off every surface. Luna makes something that she claims is salad, only, no salad should be <em>that</em> shade of fuchsia, and Hermione gets absolutely plastered from the punch, and at the end of the night Ron has to carry her into the Floo.</p><p>It’s perfect. </p><p>Draco couldn’t come. One of his patients came down with a bad case of Spattergroit. As an apology he’s sent a case of champagne that has erupts with tiny shooting stars when it’s poured. Harry feels his absence like the crushing heat of a dead sun, but it’s a good day, and after everyone’s left, he goes upstairs to his bedroom and Floo-calls Draco.</p><p>He’s a bit tipsy from the fancy champagne and the not-so-fancy firewhiskey Ron brought, so maybe he says a few things he shouldn’t. Things like, <em>I miss you so much</em>, and <em>my house feels wrong without you here</em>, and <em>I want to be with you,</em> and <em>I want to see you.</em></p><p>And Draco is lovely and patient and beautiful, and he smiles like Harry is the most wonderful thing in the world. </p><p>‘Come to Ghent,’ he tells Harry once he’s done rambling. ‘You’ll love it here.’</p><p>-</p><p>Harry does love it in Ghent. He loves Draco’s apartment, because it’s just so <em>Draco</em>, and Draco is more Draco than he ever was. He keeps his hair short these days - <em>Merlin help me if I end up looking like my father, Harry </em>- and wears beautiful suits and always has flowers pinned to his lapel. He laughs a lot and he smiles freely, and sometimes he likes to hum along to the wireless as he cooks.</p><p>It’s better than Paris - because Paris was an adventure, but Ghent is home to Draco.</p><p>He knows each secret corner of the city, each hidden alcove of the cathedral. He leads Harry down twisting alleyways into quiet little squares. He knows the local butcher by name and he has a favourite bakery - <em>nobody else does croissants like this place, Harry </em>- and he haggles shamelessly over the price of antiques at the flea market every week. He was so quiet in England, so subdued, so <em>polite</em>. He comes alive here in a way that makes Harry’s heart hurt, but in a good way.</p><p>That is what love is, perhaps. To be overjoyed even as one is pulled apart.</p><p>It always rains in this city, so they get caught in a downpour, but as they huddle beneath the shade of a tree, a busker on the steps of a nearby church starts playing the soft refrains of Bach on her cello. Harry glances at Draco, noting the way the droplets of water slide down from his cheekbones to his jaw, and suppresses the urge to kiss him.</p><p>It takes a lot of control not to kiss Draco. Draco is so beautiful, framed in the amber lights as they take their nightly walks down the canals through the city, a creature dipped in inky shadow and warm gold. But Harry keeps it together, because to do anything more than this (their hands intertwined, a gesture perhaps too intimate for people claiming to be friends, for a <em>maybe </em>rendered asunder by miles and miles of ocean and land separating them) is to ask for a gift that the universe is not ready to give someone as undeserving as Harry. </p><p>But Harry is so fucking happy anyways. He spends every minute so happy he doesn’t know where to put it all, so one evening he drinks a whole bottle of wine and cries into Draco’s shoulder because he’s just so overwhelmed with how he’s allowed to be happy now. </p><p>He doesn’t have to fight anymore. He doesn’t have to die for anyone, anymore.</p><p>They have breakfast with all the windows open, and though the summers are as chilly and rainy here as they were in England, Harry never once feels cold. Draco sits with his chair drawn as close to Harry’s as possible, and they eat from the same plate. Draco is careless with his affections these days - more so than their days in the Cornwall house. He wipes a smear of chocolate off Harry’s lips and licks it off his thumb, and then drops his hand onto Harry’s sternum, where his shirt is still unbuttoned. He traces Harry’s scars every morning - the one that took his life in the Forbidden  Forest, and the one that reaches down his flank down to his hip, where a metal pole pierced through his body and remained there for the three days that he was buried beneath the wreck of Diagon Alley.</p><p>Harry wants Draco’s hands to wander further. He wants those long fingers on every last inch of his skin, to explore each and every last of Harry’s many, many scars, to brush over the parts of him that have not felt such tenderness in years. He wants to be taken apart.</p><p>He doesn’t ask for it, though. Not even in the honey-sweet moments when they sit together by the river and watch fireworks explode in the sky, when Draco’s thumb strokes patterns into the nape of Harry’s neck. Not afterwards, when they drink champagne in Draco’s bed and grow giggly off the bubbles - not even when Draco presses his hand against Harry’s cheek and <em>leans</em> towards him, lips parted and eyes as bright as a thousand trails of burning magnesium.</p><p>Harry doesn’t kiss Draco, not once. He’s afraid of that dam breaking and of the flood of his love and desire and the decade of <em>pining</em> that will sweep them both away and leave nothing but ruins.</p><p>It’s a relief when Teddy comes to stay when school lets out. There’s a sobering effect to having a teenager’s eyes latched on you at all hours of the day - and a complete lack of privacy.</p><p>Draco is still generous with his affections, but they are a quieter sort - a hand on Harry’s lower back, guiding him through the flower market, a meaningful smile shot over Teddy’s head as they walk through the Muggle museums, a brush of the hand when Draco hands Harry his tea, Draco’s fingers lacing through Harry’s as they watch the telly when the weather’s too poor to venture outdoors. </p><p>Harry sometimes forgets that they aren’t a family. He forgets that Teddy isn’t <em>his</em>. Isn’t <em>theirs</em>. </p><p>Sometimes he wishes that this was real. Sometimes he even believes that it is real, especially when they sit around a table at a restaurant and the waitress tells Teddy that he’s lucky to have such handsome fathers, and when he looks up at Draco, he’s smiling back at Harry with such <em>warmth</em> that Harry feels a lump grow in his throat and he dares to want more than he’s ever wanted.</p><p>Halfway through Teddy’s summer holiday, an owl comes for Harry - from McGonagall, of all people.</p><p><em>Congratulations on quitting your job, Mr. Potter,</em> the letter reads. <em>I admit that, although initially supportive of your endeavours in law enforcement, I had a suspicion that it was perhaps not the best fit for you</em>. <em>We do currently have an open position for Defence Against the Dark Arts, should you be interested. </em></p><p>They have a bit of a family discussion about it after dinner, which quickly evolves into the Black family inquisition against helpless Potter. Draco’s been pushing for this since, well, forever, and Teddy’s delighted at the idea of having his extremely famous, ex-Auror godfather around all the time to impress his friends.</p><p>‘I don’t know if this is right,’ Harry protests. ‘I’m unqualified.’</p><p>Draco arches an eyebrow at Harry. ‘Now, I could be losing my memory in my old age,’ he says, ‘but didn’t you run a club in fifth year where you taught a bunch of incompetent children to duel Death Eaters? With surprising success, I might add.’</p><p>‘Yes,’ Harry says, ‘and I distinctly remember you aiding Umbridge in bringing an end to the DA.’</p><p>Draco wrinkles his nose disgustedly at the mention of the phenomenal unpleasantness that was Dolores Umbridge. ‘Only because I was an insufferable git obsessed with winning approval of anyone in power. Next excuse.’</p><p>‘Draco, I’m unstable,’ Harry says, growing exasperated. ‘I have PTSD. I shouldn’t be a teacher. <em>I shouldn’t be around kids.</em>’</p><p>‘So like, I don’t count as a kid?’ Teddy interrupts, gesturing at himself. ‘Victoire just emerged from the womb as a full-grown teenager? And I suppose Rose is just a really, really small adult. Or maybe she’s a grindylow in a very good disguise. Oh, and what about Hugo?’</p><p>‘Edward,’ Harry frowns. </p><p>‘Harold,’ Teddy grins, every bit the picture of his mother.</p><p>‘Don’t gang up on me,’ Harry says, levelling a look at Draco, who only smiles innocently back at him. ‘Two against one is unfair.’</p><p>Artemis meows pointedly and rolls over on Harry’s lap, exposing her white belly. </p><p>‘Three against one, then,’ Harry sighs, scratching Artemis’s chin.</p><p>He already knows he’s going to say yes. How could he not? It’s the perfect job. He’ll be going back home, to the one place that never asked him to be anything but himself. He will finally be doing something useful with his abilities, nurturing instead of tearing things down, helping instead of harming. </p><p>But teachers at Hogwarts don’t commute. </p><p>That night, Harry can’t sleep. He wanders into Draco’s room to find him still up, reading in bed with only the bedside lamp on. </p><p>Draco puts away his book as Harry climbs into bed beside him and leans over to turn off the lights. He takes Harry’s shaking hands in his own and holds them until Harry learns how to fill his lungs with air again. They lie down together as the night air drifts in through the open windows, and Draco pulls Harry close, closer than Harry’s ever dared to be, close enough for Harry’s legs tangle up with Draco’s, close enough to feel the <em>thump thump thump</em> of Draco’s heart hammering into Harry’s own rib cage. </p><p>‘I wanted to stay here with you,’ Harry whispers. ‘I wanted to build a forever with you.’</p><p>Draco kisses his forehead, his palms, the soft inside of Harry’s wrist, over the silver-and-white scars running over his skin, and the black circles of Harry’s Anchors. ‘My delightful idiot,’ Draco smiles. ‘My sweet, lion-hearted buffoon. We have time to figure out a forever. All the time in the world.’</p><p>-</p><p>Harry feels like he’s running out of time. </p><p>He glances sideways at Pansy. She was already here when he arrived, standing in the corner of the kitchen making a fresh pot of tea. Pansy’s been mostly quiet throughout, and she keeps staring out the windows at the flowers growing on Narcissa’s balcony with a wistful expression that tells Harry she probably would prefer to be outside sitting in here, suffering through Narcissa’s small talk.</p><p>Pansy has no idea what he’s trying to do, of course. He hopes she won’t ask too much about how far he’s gotten with the case. There are things he just can’t tell her - things that he’s had to keep secret as soon as he started working for the Department of Mysteries. Things about the black lines of ink tattooed onto his arms, and the other things he’s learned how to do.</p><p>He modified his Anchors this morning before he left the hotel. If he has a moment to focus - <em>just one moment</em> - he can find the magical signatures hiding in this room, no matter how faint. And if he can find Lucius’s magical signature, he can find the general location of the Panic Room.</p><p>But Narcissa keeps asking him polite questions about his work at Hogwarts and how Teddy is doing, and if he must talk, he can’t zone in on the background magical traces. He clenches his left hand into a tight fist and wraps his other hand around it. It feels as though there’s an invisible band tightening around his torso, squashing his lungs until he can’t breathe.</p><p>He’s running out of time. If he’s right - <em>Merlin, he wants to be wrong </em>- Lucius is here, hiding in the walls of Narcissa’s lovely apartment, probably listening to their every word. Harry can’t keep coming back here without arousing suspicion, and probably putting Narcissa in danger. He might even be putting Draco in danger. He just needs a minute, just sixty seconds, and he’ll have the information he needs.</p><p>Harry drags his fingers through his hair, exhaling a sharp breath of air through his nose.</p><p>‘Oh, I do apologize,’ says Narcissa, her forehead wrinkling slightly. ‘I meant no offense.’</p><p>Harry freezes, a deer in the headlights, and realises that he has no idea what she said to him.</p><p>‘Of course, Potter isn’t offended,’ Pansy intercepts smoothly with a dismissive flick of her wrist. She glances at Harry briefly and arches her eyebrow at him. ‘He’s just anxious about not having anyone to take to Astoria’s wedding. After all, Draco’s booked up all the way until Christmas.’ She leans forward, smiling at Narcissa. ‘But Narcissa, I’ve been dying to ask,’ she says. ‘Draco tells me you and the girls are starting a Muggle book club. Are you really? How delightfully modern.’</p><p>‘Yes, it’s very much the rage,’ Narcissa replies, brightening visibly. ‘Draco bought me a lovely set by a Muggle lady - Austen, I think.’ </p><p>She begins to launch into an animated description of <em>Northanger Abbey</em>, prodded along by Pansy’s clever questions - <em>oh, how fascinating, but you must tell me more </em>- and, thankfully, abandons her conversation with Harry entirely. </p><p>He breathes a sigh of relief and gives Pansy the subtlest of nods. She’s bought him some time, and he absolutely loves her for it.</p><p>He starts with the Anchors. They hum softly against his skin, further down into the fibres of his muscles, and he lets them spread outwards through his veins - that soft, quiet brush of snow-soft magic that’s become as familiar to him as the weight of his glasses. Then, he reaches outwards, gathering in every last whisper and scream of magic woven into the fabric of the apartment, letting it dig with talons and claws into his magic until he can taste the heat of burnout in his mouth. He can taste the spellwork on the magical portraits, the protective charms keeping the wallpaper new and the floors clean. He reaches and reaches and reaches - until suddenly something chimes in harmony with the vibration of his Anchors.</p><p>
  <em>Draco.</em>
</p><p>Harry opens his eyes slowly and turns to face the source of Draco’s magical signature. There is nothing there but a wall - a wall that’s always been there, behind the sofa in Narcissa’s living room, no different from any others. Nothing to indicate the presence of an enormous, fortified room hiding behind it.</p><p>Except - </p><p>Except, when Harry first came to see Narcissa, she kept staring at this wall. She wouldn’t look away from it. </p><p>Harry remembers the bite of sharp nails on his chest - <em>Is Draco alive?</em> - and a lie told by a mother, in a desperate ploy to save her son.</p><p>
  <em>Draco takes care of me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I love him more than anything.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do you understand, Mr. Potter?</em>
</p><p>Realisation slams into Harry like a punch to the gut. Narcissa’s been trying to tell him where Draco was this whole time - and Harry’s been completely oblivious to it. Harry hates himself so much he wants to rip his stomach from behind his teeth and set it on fire. He wants to tear off his skin and throw himself off Narcissa’s lovely balcony. </p><p>
  <em>He should have known. He should have fucking known. </em>
</p><p>He manages to say a polite goodbye to Narcissa and thank her for hosting them, keeping his face a mask of calm until she finally shuts the door - and then Harry flees down the staircase and bursts out of the apartment building and into the heavy heat of the outdoors. He makes it three paces before he’s violently sick in the bushes.</p><p>‘What happened?’ demands Pansy, breathless from chasing him downstairs. ‘What were you doing up there when you zoned out? Potter, what the hell <em>was </em>that?’</p><p>Harry’s gut roils. He wipes his mouth, tears stinging at his eyes. ‘I can’t… I can’t tell you, Pansy.’</p><p>‘You can’t- <em>Merlin</em>.’ Pansy growls in frustration.</p><p>She paces back and forth on the hot pavement, her fingers pushing her bangs away from her forehead. She makes a short, gasping noise in the back of her throat, and whirls around at Harry. </p><p>‘Blaise works with modified spells and unusual magical cores - you <em>felt him,</em> didn’t you?’ she accuses, pointing at his chest. Her voice rises in cadence, growing shrill and shaky. ‘Oh, fuck. <em>Fuck</em>. What the fuck is happening? He’s in there, isn’t he? He’s been in there the entire time.’ </p><p>She’s crying now, properly crying in the street with her mascara running down her cheeks in sooty tracks, and even if there’s no one around to witness her weeping, she’s never done this before in her entire life - never let anyone see her break down.</p><p>Harry reaches out and pulls Pansy into a tight hug. Her shoulders are so much smaller than they look, but that’s because she always stands taller than she really is. Pansy is a paper mache monster easily crumpled in the rain, but she bites as hard as she can so you never know how much she cares. Harry feels a surge of gratitude for this prickly, aggressive witch and the depths of her love for her friends. </p><p>‘I’m sorry,’ he tells her. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’ He steps away, already pulling his wand from its holster. ‘I have to go back and start working on getting him out of there.’</p><p>Pansy nods, sniffling. ‘Can I- how can I help?’</p><p>‘You helped me already, Pansy,’ he tells her, as sincere as he knows how to be. ‘More than you know. More than you’ll ever know.’</p><p>-</p><p>Harry hears Ron’s yelling before he sees him come charging in through the doorway of his hotel room.</p><p>‘Alright, you insensitive prick,’ Ron thunders, ‘you’ve been making Hermione sick with worry.’</p><p>Harry wonders, faintly, if the hotel reception even understands the concept of privacy. First Pansy, now Ron - apparently anyone can waltz right into his room whenever they want. </p><p>‘You haven’t responded to any of our letters,’ Ron says, relentless in his tirade, ‘haven’t been answering any of our calls - I had to resort to talking to Pansy. Daphne and Luna were supposed to go on honeymoon, I’ll have you know, but instead Daphne’s here trying to keep you from-’ he breaks off, blinking at the papers scattered across the bed and table, and then up at the glowing structure floating in the middle of the room.</p><p>Harry glances back at the model he’s been working on for the past four hours. ‘I’ve been busy,’ he says, sounding a little curter than he wants to be.</p><p>The reverse-engineering hasn’t gone all too well. He’s thrown countless variations of protective spells together onto his model - the glowing orb that Ron is gawping at - that he knows will reproduce the effects in the manual, but none of them <em>feel</em> the same as that quiet, subdued hum that he heard in Narcissa’s wall. It’s been driving him insane. He’s slept a total of three hours, napping sporadically whenever his headache gets blinding.</p><p>‘Busy doing what, exactly?’ Ron asks, frowning deeply and folding his arms over his chest.</p><p>Even though he’s, well, <em>Ron</em>, he’s also six-foot-three and horrifically intimidating. Harry decides he can probably let protocol slip this once, seeing as it’s, well, Ron.</p><p>‘I’m trying to reverse-engineer a magical panic room that Draco had installed in Narcissa’s apartment,’ Harry says, the words spilling out him in a rush, ‘because I’m almost certain that Lucius is holding Draco hostage in that panic room and is probably torturing him in an attempt to force him to fix a Time Turner capable of going back years, decades in time to make sure that Riddle won the war. So yeah. Busy.’ </p><p>Ron’s face pales, drawing his freckles into stark contrast. ‘Bloody hell,’ he utters.</p><p>‘Yeah,’ Harry sighs. ‘Hence, that monstrosity.’ He waves a hand at the magical sphere floating in his hotel room. </p><p>‘What the hell, Harry?’ Ron frowns. He prods at the glowing orb with his wand and watches the golden runes shift and slide out of the way. ‘This looks complex.’</p><p>‘Aw, thanks mate,’ Harry says sarcastically. He sits back down in his chair. ‘Hadn’t noticed ‘til you pointed it out. Cheers.’</p><p>‘No, I mean-’ Ron peers closer at the jumble of spells circling the golden orb, long threads of runes weaving in and out of one another. ‘I recognize some of this. Listen, George and I worked on some of this for our Undetectable Box of Delectables.’</p><p>Harry flings the filthiest look he can muster at his friend. ‘You used <em>security level charms</em> for a treats box? <em>For children?</em>’</p><p>‘Yeah, ’course I did,’ Ron grins. ‘Had to hide them from <em>you</em>.’</p><p>‘I’m going to kill you,’ says Harry, and he almost means it.</p><p>‘If it makes you feel better,’ Ron replies, winking. ‘Shall I have a look at this then?’</p><p>Harry gestures at the room with a wide sweep of his arm. ‘Please.’ </p><p>He’s probably breaking an inordinate number of rules, but he’s at his wits’ end, and honestly, it’s been a while since he could rely on the well-oiled machine of the Potter-Weasley partnership. Harry gets too close, a victim of tunnel vision and hyperfocus, while Ron’s always been good with looking at the bigger picture. He’s also learned a bunch of new tricks with his work at the shop. </p><p>Ron wanders over to the mess scattered over the bed, squinting slightly as he scans over Harry’s scribbled notes. He should really get himself a pair of reading glasses, but Ron’s as stubborn as they come.  </p><p>‘Y’know,’ Ron says thoughtfully, ‘George is more an expert on this level of complicated spellwork than I am. I’ll give it my best shot though.’</p><p>Harry frowns. ‘Wait,’ he says slowly. ‘What if George <em>could</em> take a look at this?’</p><p>Ron turns around to look at Harry bemusedly. ‘Didn’t you have a problem last time getting him on the team?’</p><p>‘Last time I didn’t have Blaise Zabini in my corner,’ Harry says. He gets up from his table, the motion making him sway somewhat. He needs to eat, or sleep, or perhaps just drink something other than coffee, but first- ‘I have to make a call.’</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And now we are done with Looking For Malfoy. <br/>I ended up breaking this chapter in two. It became a bit of a behemoth and it was too much of a roller coaster to keep in one chapter. It’s going to be a real good chapter next, you’re going to have so much fun (she shouts into the quiet auditorium with only three people in the audience).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. landslide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>‘It means… it means, stay alive for me,’ he says. ‘Take care of yourself when I’m not there.’</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: mentions of being trapped, injuries, death, and a character experiencing a PTSD flashback</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Alright,’ says Ron, ‘<em>why</em> can’t it be this combination of spells?’ He jabs his finger in the general direction of the glowing sphere in the middle of the room. ‘It’s what I would use.’</p>
<p>There are other spheres floating above them - all prior failed attempts at recreating the Lopez Panic Room - close to the high, arched ceiling of the laboratory. Harry’s hotel room became too cramped for three people to work comfortably in, so Blaise arranged this place for them through the Ministry. The laboratory is on the top floor of an old villa belonging to one of the professors who teaches part-time at Beauxbatons. The house is just outside the city - in what Harry would probably call a quaint country town - and just far away from other wizarding houses that Harry doesn’t have to deal with the white-noise-feedback of background spells.</p>
<p>‘Because it doesn’t feel right,’ Harry grunts in frustration. He doesn’t know how to explain it to Ron - it’s like trying to describe the spectrum of colours in a rainbow to a blind person. </p>
<p>‘What the bloody hell does that <em>mean</em>?’ Ron demands, sounding near hysterical.</p>
<p>It’s been hours of work, and no matter what combination the three of them try, they still can’t recreate the Lopez Panic Room. If it weren’t for Draco, Harry would probably congratulate the Lopez brothers on creating a near uncrackable puzzle. </p>
<p>‘Now then children, let’s not fight,’ George says lightly. ‘Harry, sit down before you pass out or sick up. Ron, shut up and go make us some tea.’</p>
<p>Harry opens his mouth to protest and Ron throws him a look so thunderous that Harry quickly thinks better of it. He drops into the nearest chair, pulls off his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. His eyes feel red-hot in his sockets, and a nasty migraine is threatening to split his skull open. He’s been exhausted for days but now it’s getting to the point where it feels like his muscles are woven from lead. </p>
<p>Ron nudges Harry’s foot with his toe, prompting him to look up. Ron hands Harry his cup of tea (Harry has no recollection of him making it) and sits down next to him. </p>
<p>‘You need to get some sleep,’ Ron says, quiet with worry. ‘Harry, you’re doing it again.’</p>
<p><em>It.</em> A kind euphemism for, <em>you’re working yourself to either a mental breakdown or a nasty magical injury.</em></p>
<p>‘I know,’ Harry says. ‘I know- it’s just.’ He swallows thickly around the jagged stone lodged in his throat. ‘I can’t lose him. I never even- I can’t.’</p>
<p>Ron’s face softens. ‘I know, mate. I know.’ </p>
<p>They’ve never really talked about it, not properly. Neither of them is very good at sitting down and talking about their emotions with each other, Mind-Healer or no, but they are rather excellent at understanding each other on some bizarre, subliminal level. Ron probably knew about Draco even before Harry did.</p>
<p>‘Ronald!’ shouts George from the other side of the room. He waves his tea around, causing some of it to spill over onto the polished floorboards. ‘I’ve got a fantastic idea. It’s genius, really.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, Merlin, here we go again,’ Ron says wearily. ‘George has an idea, Harry. Let’s go save him from it.’</p>
<p>Harry manages a chuckle. After three hours of working with the elder Weasley, Harry wonders how Ron’s managed to put up with it for this long. George’s spikes of creative energy are exhausting - it’s like being strapped to a rollercoaster manned by a chaos demon with a penchant for explosives. </p>
<p>George hurries over to them, grinning broadly. ‘I’ve got it!’ he announces. ‘We’ve been coming at all wrong.’ He waves his copy of the manual at them both. ‘You don’t <em>actually</em> need a key,’ he says. ‘What you need is a way into the Panic Room.’</p>
<p>Ron’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Oh!’ he cries. ‘Yes!’ He claps his hands and laughs. ‘Oh, why didn’t we think of it before?’</p>
<p>‘Would you two care to explain to the rest of the class?’ Harry asks dryly. </p>
<p>‘You need a way to pick the lock,’ George says. He slaps the manual against his palm. ‘We already know all the spells that won’t work on the Panic Room. We just have to find the right combination of spells that <em>will</em>.’</p>
<p>‘Merlin. Christ.’ Harry struggles to his feet. ‘That’s bloody genius, George. Where do we start?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, absolutely not,’ Ron says, pushing Harry back into the chair with a considerable amount of strength. ‘I’m going to Transfigure you a cot, and you are going to get at least two hours of sleep.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Or. <em>Else.</em>’</p>
<p>Harry lifts his hands up in defeat. ‘Yeah, alright.’</p>
<p>Ron Transfigures one of the tables into a cot as Harry modifies his Anchors, feeling the sweetwater magic rise up over him, cooling his too-hot blood. As he lies down, he feels sleep drag him under before his head can even hit the pillow. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>It’s a beautiful afternoon. From Harry’s classroom, he can see the Forbidden Forest stretch out onwards, the leaves so bright the forest seems aflame. He’s got one of the windows cracked open, cold, autumn air drifting in and bringing with it the sweet smell of damp leaves.</p>
<p>A letter came from Draco this morning.</p>
<p>
  <em>Went for coffee with a friend today, as it was the one day Ghent is allocated where it is not absolutely miserable and rainy. Please find enclosed a memento of this spectacular afternoon. I miss you.</em>
</p>
<p>Draco sent him a leaf from an oak tree, preserved in its brilliant tungsten yellow-orange with a Stasis charm. Harry misses him like a lost limb. His teeth hurt from the aching.</p>
<p>It isn’t the perfect job, working at Hogwarts. His students are incredibly difficult (he loves them, God help him, he loves them) and he tries his best, and for the most part he’s found his footing. The workload is intense and he’s constantly exhausted, and when he trudges up the stairs to his private quarters, he passes plaque after plaque commemorating the people who died in the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry’s never really had to face any of this, all these years since the War, too busy running towards - </p>
<p>Harry has no idea what he was running towards. He was probably running <em>from</em> all of this, and what it all means, but he can’t run anymore, so now all his monsters have finally caught up with him.</p>
<p>The memories of the War, of Voldemort - those are dim when Harry is awake. But in sleep, they are vivid, embellished with details Harry wishes he could forget. </p>
<p>He tries not to sleep. Instead, he lies in the dark and stares up at the ceiling, trying to recall the weight of Draco slumbering beside him, or the hum of his magic perfectly aligned with Harry’s Anchors.</p>
<p>There is a polite knock on his door. Harry turns in time to see Neville popping his head through the door. </p>
<p>‘Hiya, Harry,’ he grins. ‘Glad you’re free. I’ve got something for you.’</p>
<p>Harry hasn’t really seen Neville in a while - the Hogwarts schedule and the Auror rota kept them in separate worlds, with the exception of the occasional gala or fundraiser. Neville usually turns up early, makes his rounds, and then disappears before Harry’s managed to say more than a few sentences to him. </p>
<p>Harry recalls liking Neville, once. In the early days, before Ron quit the Aurors, they used to meet at the pub every weekend to catch up. But that was before Harry ended up tunnelled under work and whittled away into a walking shell of a person. He knows Ginny’s been dating Neville for years now, and it shouldn’t matter, not really, because Harry is irrevocably in love with Draco - only it does, somehow, because Neville’s life resembles that childish, stupid everything-forever-happy-ending, and Harry has nothing but a broken heart and an eternity of sleepless nights and a faltering <em>maybe</em> that is an ocean away.</p>
<p>He resents Neville with every fibre of his being, and he hates himself for it.</p>
<p>Neville traverses Harry’s classroom, his long legs eating up the distance easily. He raises his eyebrows appreciatively at the diagrams on the walls, the terrarium at the back of the classroom - and this annoys Harry, for some stupid reason, because he doesn’t want Neville’s approval, doesn’t need it, but something inside him swells with pride anyways.</p>
<p>‘Madame Pomfrey said you dropped by to ask her about alternatives to Dreamless Sleep,’ Neville says. There’s a streak of soil on his nose and he looks so fucking earnest Harry wants to punch him in the face. ‘I’m growing something for you to hang by your bed. It’ll do the trick - I still have mine up by my bed.’</p>
<p>Harry feels something snap inside of him like a bone breaking.</p>
<p>‘I’m perfectly fine, Neville,’ he says sharply. ‘I’d rather you stayed out of my private affairs in future.’</p>
<p>‘Oh,’ says Neville, blinking. A frown flits briefly over his face, and then he rubs the back of his neck. ‘Right. Sorry. Let me know if you change your mind, though,’ he adds, managing another friendly smile before he leaves.</p>
<p>He shuts the door behind him with a gentle click. </p>
<p>Harry squeezes his eyes shut. He’s got no excuse, talking to Neville like that, but he’s brittle from the dry rot inside of him. It takes almost nothing to make him turn into something ugly and angry and resentful.  </p>
<p>It doesn’t make sense, though. He quit. He stopped doing stupid, reckless things, stopped overworking, and putting himself in dangerous situations. He’s got his Anchors and he’s got Daphne and he doesn’t blow anything up anymore. </p>
<p>So why isn’t he better yet? </p>
<p>He’s placed the oak leaf in a glass panel and framed it, hung it on the wall above his bed, and he’s got Draco’s picture on his desk, and some of his clothes still smell like the detergent Draco likes to use - but Ghent feels a million miles away.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Harry stumbles across the Room of Hidden Things during one of his late-night shifts walking round the castle. </p>
<p>Perhaps it is morbid curiosity that drives him to walk deep into its ruins, or perhaps he is a glutton for punishment these days, desperate for barbs to dig into old sores. It is all still ash and decimation, and Harry doesn’t know if the old beast has opened its doors to a single soul since the day of the Battle. </p>
<p>He wonders where the remains of Vincent Crabbe are. </p>
<p>There were nights when Draco would get quiet, and his eyes would take on a haunted look, and he would say horrible things about himself that made Harry want to cry or scream or shake Draco until he stopped. <em>It’s my fault Vincent is dead. I got him involved with the Death Eaters - I fed him the same filth my father told me.</em></p>
<p>But it isn’t Draco’s fault. Not in a way that matters.</p>
<p>Crabbe had his own family whispering poison into his ear, his own twisted understanding of the world, his own desires that drove him down that awful, terrible path. And at the end of the day, they were all children made into cannon fodder by the people who should have kept them safe. </p>
<p>There are mountains of broken, charred corpses of things that used to be glittering and wonderful. The warped edges of lost magic dig into his awareness like barbed wire. He didn’t know back then, how these artefacts were woven together with so much beautiful, intricate spellwork. He can trace the echoes of the charms in the fragments that remain. If he’d known back then - desperate with fear and adrenaline, running on little sleep and even less food - would he have turned around, tried to stop the Fiendfyre?</p>
<p><em>Could</em> he have stopped it, even if he’d tried? Or would he, too, have been reduced to ash and charred bone?</p>
<p>The taste of rubble and ash on his tongue triggers something in his mind - a raw, untreated wound - and suddenly he is fighting for breath, delirious with pain, choking on the stench of decay and burnt flesh, staring up in a darkness that is nearly impenetrable, knowing that he will die here, he will die underneath this brick and mortar and plaster and wood and steel, bleeding into the broken earth, and nobody will find him, nobody will miss him-</p>
<p>He lurches out of the memory as a hand tightens on his shoulder. Neville’s anxious face swims into focus, lit by the radiant glow of his wand.</p>
<p>‘Harry? You alright?’</p>
<p>‘Get off me,’ Harry says. His pulse beats an errant rhythm against his eardrums. He knows he’s safe, knows that it has been months since Diagon Alley, knows that he survived - but the memory clings to him, threatening to take over again. </p>
<p>Neville doesn’t move his hand. His touch feels too-sharp, like splinters sticking into his skin.</p>
<p>‘Get off me!’ Harry growls. He takes a few hurried steps backwards, yanking out of Neville’s grip. ‘Please just-’ he breaks off, panting, his lungs burning like they’ve been sandpapered on this inside. ‘Please just leave me alone.’</p>
<p>He tries not to look at Neville as he hurries away, but he catches sight of the look of worry and pity on Neville’s face as he flees. He can’t stand to see it - he knows how pathetic he’s become.</p>
<p>In a way, Harry’s not different from the Room of Hidden Things. If there was ever anything great about Harry, it’s long since been lost in the fire.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The Astronomy Tower is an archive of painful memories too, but it’s easier to breathe up here. And here he can see the string of stars that form Draco’s namesake, and it makes the distance feel smaller, somehow. He makes a habit of it, climbing the endless staircase each night to watch the constellations.</p>
<p>Eventually Neville stumbles across him on a late autumn night, just before the cusp of winter. He moves to stand next to Harry, about a foot away, and he squints as he peers up at the night sky and its plethora of planets and stars. </p>
<p>‘Never did like heights,’ Neville says, in that steady, pleasant way he says everything. ‘I was always dead impressed by you in first year, shooting up into the sky like that, even though it was your first time on a broomstick. Makes sense you’d be fine with this place.’</p>
<p>Harry feels his shame spread through him, locking his joints and churning his gut. Since Harry set foot in Hogwarts, Neville’s been nothing but nice to Harry - because he’s a good friend and always has been. He’s always been kind and honest and selfless and helpful. </p>
<p>Harry’s the one who changed. He’s the one who let himself get all rotten and bitter on the inside.</p>
<p>‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a twat,’ Harry says. ‘I get so stuck in my head sometimes. It’s not an excuse, but.’ He sighs, leaning his elbows against the railing. ‘I’m sorry.’ </p>
<p>‘Harry,’ Neville says heavily. ‘You’ve got to stop beating yourself up about this. You went through a lot.’</p>
<p>‘We all did,’ Harry frowns.</p>
<p>The clouds race across the sky, momentarily obscuring the moon and casting them into a pale gloom. The air is just a little too cool to be sitting out here, but he needs the icy wind beating against his face. He needs to feel something, <em>anything</em> but the awful creeping numbness that spreads within him.</p>
<p>‘I was jealous of you, you know,’ Harry confesses. ‘I had it in my head that you’re… that this is what the Chosen One is supposed to look like. Not like me. Not…’ he trails off and waves his hand over the general vicinity of his chest. </p>
<p>He expects to see anger in Neville’s face - or perhaps confusion, disgust - but instead the Herbology Professor just looks sad.</p>
<p>‘I think you could probably be a little kinder to yourself,’ Neville says. ‘You saved the world, Harry. Not just twice, by the way, because there’s first year, and then second year, and then fourth year, and then fifth year you taught us all how to protect ourselves against Death Eaters. Can you imagine any of our fifth-year students doing that? Training an army?’</p>
<p>Harry thinks of his fifth years - of Reynolds, skinny, freckled and asthmatic, of the Smithson sisters, Hufflepuff Beaters, and Beckinsdale, who’s only just managed to beat his first Boggart - and he tries to imagine them going to war, but they’re so young, so small. <em>Was he ever really that small?</em></p>
<p>Neville reaches out slowly, as though approaching a frightened animal, and places his palm flat on Harry’s shoulder. He has strong hands, but his grip is gentle.</p>
<p>‘You’re always trying to be there for everyone and be this person you think everyone expects you to be,’ Neville says. ‘You never tell us how much you’re hurting. But you are hurting. You’ve been hurting since before we met, for longer than anyone should.’ </p>
<p>Harry digs his teeth into his lip, and he knows all of this, really, but it aches all the same. </p>
<p>Neville shakes his head, releasing his grip on Harry’s shoulder. ‘It just seems horrible, Harry. It’s awful that this is who you had to be - that is the life they forced upon you <em>because</em> you’re the Chosen One. It makes me glad that You-Know-Who didn’t pick me that night.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe that makes me a bit of a twat too.’</p>
<p>Harry lets out a surprised guffaw. ‘You could never be a twat, Neville,’ he grins. ‘You’re too fucking noble.’</p>
<p>Neville chuckles low in his chest. ‘I’ll have that in writing, please.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, sod off.’</p>
<p>They stand in companionable silence for a while, watching the stars. The moon reappears from behind a cloud bank, and it bathes the Forbidden Forest in a wash of silver. </p>
<p>‘I’m starting to see a Mind Healer, y’know,’ Harry says, glancing at Neville. ‘We Floo every Wednesday night. I’ve started to work through some stuff, like-’ he huffs out a breath and pauses. ‘Like how maybe I was groomed to hate myself and that I was exposed to a lot of danger and death really young, and that was all engineered to make me willing to martyr myself. Like how I’ve been taught that love conquers all, which is why I’ve been using love as a crutch when it shouldn’t be like that.’</p>
<p>Neville smiles. ‘I think Malfoy’s pretty happy to let you use you as a crutch, Harry,’ he replies steadily.</p>
<p>‘What?’ Harry splutters. ‘I’m not- I dated other people, you know- how did you- how do you know?’</p>
<p>‘Harry,’ says Neville, staring at him pointedly. ‘You should see the way you look at him. You should see the way he looks at <em>you</em>.’</p>
<p>‘Oh,’ says Harry. ‘Well. He’s in Belgium now. And it’s good for him. And I need to learn how to be okay before I… before I tell him.’</p>
<p>‘Mate, I hate to break it to you,’ Neville grins, ‘but I think Malfoy might not need telling.’</p>
<p>Harry frowns at him confusedly. </p>
<p>‘He sends you chocolates every week,’ Neville says, gesturing widely. ‘<em>Every week</em>. I’m lucky if Ginny sends me a letter once a month. Honestly, Ginny and I have a betting pool running in our friend groups about when you two will have a spring or winter wedding. My money’s on winter, by the way,’ he adds, ‘because you're an absolute doormat when it comes to Malfoy, and according to Gran the Malfoys love a winter wedding.’</p>
<p>Harry makes an exasperated noise at the back of his throat. ‘The chocolate doesn’t mean - it’s not a romantic thing!’ he protests.</p>
<p>‘What does it mean, then?’ Neville asks, wagging his eyebrows.</p>
<p>Harry presses the palms of his hands against his forehead and tilts his head back towards the sky, fastening his gaze upon the moon and all the stars beyond. He fills his lungs with clear, cold air, and thinks of the strange poetry of all the things that tie him and Draco together - the grandeur of the stars, the rituals of Christmas and birthdays, the absurdity of confectionery. The years of fighting and squabbling and death and torture and delicate, wonderful hope. </p>
<p>‘It means… it means, stay alive for me,’ he says. ‘Take care of yourself when I’m not there.’</p>
<p>Neville laughs. ‘That sounds <em>sickeningly</em> romantic, mate. I’ve got goosebumps.’</p>
<p>‘I’m going to push you off the Astronomy Tower, see if I don’t.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Harry’s not even surprised when Neville finally asks Harry to be his best man. </p>
<p>The wedding is a mess, but in the best way. It rains <em>heavily</em> during the ceremony. Hugo slips on the muddy ground and loses the rings, which leads to Teddy scrambling around in the mud in shirt and coattails in a wild attempt to find it while Hugo bursts into tears. In the end Hermione performs a simple summoning charm and hands the rings back to Hugo, spelling the mess from his clothes and wiping his tears fondly - <em>there, there, no harm done</em>. Ginny treads on her own dress halfway through the vows and falls into her bridesmaids, losing the bouquet and ripping her dress all the way up to her waist. Neville nearly cries, he’s laughing so hard. He ends up dropping the rings and Hermione has to Summon them back from the mud again.</p>
<p>At the reception, Molly gets horrendously drunk, so Arthur ends up dancing with Professor Sprout, who’s nearly as drunk as Molly but better at remaining vertical throughout. Teddy and Victoire both take turns dancing with Rose, because she’s absolutely determined to make this <em>her</em> party, while Andromeda sits back in her chair and fans herself tiredly, muttering about being too old for this sort of thing. Draco’s been kidnapped by the army of Weasleys. When Harry peers over, he spots Draco looking horrified as George orders drinks from the bar, his arm wrapped around Draco in what Harry knows from personal experience is an iron grip. </p>
<p>Harry wanders around, waving his wand and placing charms to prevent the tent from burning to the ground or the champagne tower from collapsing and taking an eye out. Once he’s sure nothing’s about to explode or burst into flames, he quietly slips away from the party and heads out to the back of the yard. He finds a nice spot to sit in the grass, away from the tent, and looks up at the stars. </p>
<p>‘Hullo,’ says a familiar voice above him. ‘Mind if I sit?’</p>
<p>Harry gestures at the open space beside him in reply.</p>
<p>Ginny drops down beside him, her feet bare in the grass, the backs of her heels turned an angry red from the tight straps of her shoes. She’s exchanged her ripped wedding dress for a dream of flowing, silver silk that comes down to her knees and exposes her shoulders to the cool night air. </p>
<p>‘Are we alright, Harry?’ she asks, in that brutally sudden way she does when she’s attacking something difficult. Her forehead is wrinkled, all her freckles bunching up together beneath the sweeping fall of her red hair. </p>
<p>Harry feels a sudden stab of guilt, and an old, grey tinge of loss for the closeness they once had. He misses her - not as a lover, but the person who would giggle and joke and lounge around together on late Sundays, arguing about Quidditch while the dishes do themselves. </p>
<p>‘Yeah,’ says Harry, softly. ‘Yeah, of course we are, Gin. Sorry I was a twat about it all for a while.’</p>
<p>‘You weren’t a twat, Harry,’ she says. ‘<em>I</em> was.’</p>
<p>Harry turns to look at her in surprise. </p>
<p>‘Mum, Dad, Ron - everyone told me I was being cruel,’ Ginny says, ploughing on relentlessly. ‘You were going through absolute hell and I couldn’t find the capacity to be there for you. So I left you. And that’s on me.’</p>
<p>Harry reaches out between them and takes her hand. The ring on her finger sparkles as it reflects the brilliant moonlight. She squeezes his hand in response, and then releases it from her grasp.  </p>
<p>‘I couldn’t ask that of you,’ he tells her. ‘I wouldn’t ask that of anyone.’</p>
<p>‘Of course you wouldn’t, Harry.’ Her eyes shine in the starlight and Harry feels a horrible lurching in his gut because he doesn’t want her to cry on her wedding night over him. ‘But Draco didn’t need you to ask. He’s always been there. He’s there each and every time the rest of us couldn’t be, and you never had to ask him.’</p>
<p>Harry’s gut lurches, like he’s pushing his broomstick into a nosedive after the Snitch. ‘Ginny, I-’</p>
<p>‘Look,’ she says, shoving his shoulder with no small amount of force, ‘it’s my wedding, so I’m going to do and say what I bloody well like, and you’re going to have to put up with it.’ She glares at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You tell that man you love him, Harry Potter, because if I get to have a happy-ever-after, then you’d better get off your fucking arse and get yours too, or else I’ll feel like an absolute cunt forever and be forced to resort to Pansy Parkinson methods of redemption.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, Merlin,’ Harry utters, recalling the utter horror of Draco’s parole party. ‘Please don’t.’</p>
<p>‘Then <em>tell</em> him already,’ Ginny groans. </p>
<p>They both turn, then, just in time to see Draco walking down from the tent, the twinkling lights of the party turning his white-blond hair silver. He’s got a bottle of champagne tucked under his arm and his waistcoat is unbuttoned and there is pink in his cheeks.</p>
<p>Harry suddenly knows, with horrifying certainty, that all those failed dates and awful lovers don’t even matter, because he’ll never fall in love with anyone else. But he can’t say it. He just doesn’t know how to put those words into motion, not when he doesn’t know if he deserves it yet.</p>
<p>He glances at Ginny. ‘I can’t,’ he says.</p>
<p>‘<em>Harry</em>.’ </p>
<p>He shakes his head. ‘It’s - it’s just not time yet.’</p>
<p>Ginny opens her mouth to argue, but Draco is now within earshot. He drops inelegantly onto the grass between them, and by some miracle, does not spill a drop from the open bottle of champagne.</p>
<p>‘You look remarkably sober, Potter,’ he declares. He sounds posher than usual, which is a good indication as any that he’s three sips away from being face-down-in-a-ditch drunk. ‘I insist you get horrendously inebriated, this instant.’</p>
<p>‘Good god, Draco,’ Ginny says, her eyebrows shooting upwards. ‘Whatever happened to you?’</p>
<p>‘George made my drinks,’ Draco replies, and sways into Harry slightly. ‘You smell divine,’ he mumbles.</p>
<p>‘Right,’ laughs Ginny. ‘That’s my cue to fuck off.’ </p>
<p>Ginny stands up, mouthing <em>tell him </em>at Harry and jabbing her finger in the direction of Draco’s skull twice. Harry flips her off, and she makes a gesture so obscene Harry’s glad her brothers aren’t around to witness it, before heading back to her party - and suddenly Harry and Draco are alone. </p>
<p>‘Do you think you’ll remember any of this in the morning?’ Harry asks.</p>
<p>‘I sincerely hope not,’ Draco says into Harry’s collar. ‘I danced with Longbottom’s grandmother. It was a waltz. I was very sloppy. Mother would have been appalled. Potter, you won’t tell her, will you?’</p>
<p>Harry huffs a quiet laugh. Draco’s hair has come loose from its neat parting, and his fringe falls over his forehead and into his eyes. Harry pushes a lock of pale hair out of Draco’s face. </p>
<p>‘Why am I suddenly Potter again?’ he asks.</p>
<p>Draco sighs softly, his breath tickling Harry’s skin. ‘Because,’ he says, ‘if I call you by your name, I’ll be forced to have feelings, and I’m rather enjoying this vapid, unemotional level of drunkenness.’ </p>
<p>He peels away from Harry’s side and leans back on his elbows into the short grass. There will be grass stains on his crisp white shirt later, and he’ll be sure to complain in the morning, but he’s probably too drunk to care. </p>
<p>‘Don’t make me have feelings, Potter,’ he says archly, gesturing at Harry with his usual aristocratic flair. ‘I know you’re rather good at it, but I will not have feelings. Not tonight.’</p>
<p>‘What on earth are you talking about, Draco?’ Harry asks, smiling bemusedly.</p>
<p>‘I shan’t tell you,’ Draco announces. </p>
<p>Harry rests his head against his knees, his palms braced on the tops of his shins as he keeps his eyes fixed on Draco’s face. ‘Alright then,’ he says.</p>
<p>‘Fine,’ Draco sniffs. ‘I might tell you. But only if you drink this champagne. It’s not spiked, promise. I have valiantly protected you from Wicked Weasley’s antics.’</p>
<p>Harry takes a swig of the champagne. The bottle is charmed to keep the alcohol as ice-cold as when it was first opened. He sets the bottle down beside him on the wet grass. The aftertaste of the champagne is a little sour, but the air around them is sweet with the smell of rainwater and the green and mud that stretches on all around them. </p>
<p>‘Do you remember the night I first called you Harry?’ Draco asks. </p>
<p>Draco’s face is cast half in shadow, half in the light that reaches out towards them from the tent and its lively occupants. The music is distant and distorted by the space and the gentle night breeze, but Harry recognizes the strains of a familiar jig.</p>
<p>‘Of course.’ Harry’s never forgotten that night in the tall grass, the wildflowers swaying in the wind, the thrum of the ley lines deep beneath him, and the sweetwater whisper of Draco’s magic.</p>
<p>Draco breathes a soft sigh, and he leans further back into the grass, tilting his face skyward. ‘Before that point,’ he says, ‘I was doing rather well at ignoring feelings, you see, but then I saw you standing by that field, and you were hurting, and because you were hurting, I was hurting too, and I forgot the things I had sworn I would never do. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ he asks, glancing at Harry.</p>
<p>‘Not even slightly,’ says Harry, ‘but go on.’</p>
<p>‘I never meant to let myself get so close to you,’ Draco says, like it’s a confession, and maybe it is, but the meaning of it keeps slipping through Harry’s fingers. ‘You are a landslide. A veritable annihilation. I put my very best efforts into behaving respectably, and yet when you are in my grasp I lose sight of my intentions and all I have left are my <em>feelings</em>, and that simply won’t do, because then I find myself watching Weasley and Longbottom do their adorable little newlywed dance and all I can think about is you.’</p>
<p>Harry stares at Draco, and feels, once more, the earth shifting beneath him. </p>
<p>Draco’s lips twist in furtive, aborted motions, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. ‘I know you need time,’ he forces out. ‘I know that. But you don’t know. You have no concept of the depth of my feelings when it comes to you, Harry, nor their intensity.’</p>
<p>‘Do we- what do we-’ Harry breaks off, his voice choked by the shape of his heart hammering in his throat. ‘Draco, what are you saying?’</p>
<p>Draco sits up in one quick motion, shifting so that he’s sitting cross-legged, facing Harry. ‘I’m saying you can drink your champagne, or you can kiss me, or you can do none of it at all and walk away from me forever, if you like, and I’ll still… I’ll still…’ he trails off, looking down at his bare feet. ‘I can’t force you to come to Belgium, not when you’re so happy here. But I can’t be a good person, not tonight.’</p>
<p>The stars that hang in the sky above them are vast in number, incomprehensibly so, and each time Harry glances up at them in search of some kind of answer, some kind of direction, they just spin out above him in kaleidoscopic fashion until he is nauseous from the momentum. </p>
<p><em>You can kiss me. </em>Draco said that. <em>Or you can do none of it at all.</em> </p>
<p>Harry thinks about warm looks over dining room tables and the taste of champagne and fireworks exploding in the sky and the way people lean together when they yearn for one another, and he doesn’t even know why he keeps holding himself back, why he doesn’t just reach forwards and ask. </p>
<p><em>I likely shall never be as brave as you deserve from me</em>, Draco once wrote to Harry, in a lovely letter that Harry still keeps folded up in his wallet, preserved with a multitude of charms so he can carry it around like the secret love he’s harboured for Draco these long years, maybe even forever, maybe even since Draco first shot up into the sky on a broomstick with a stolen Remembrall and he went flying after. </p>
<p>Harry isn’t brave when it comes to Draco. But he can be foolish, and stupid, and heartsick, and reckless, and tonight he can find enough of all of that within him to at least pretend to be brave.</p>
<p>‘Would… would you like me to kiss you?’ Harry asks nervously. </p>
<p>‘Yes,’ says Draco - <em>yesyesyes, </em>Harry’s brain screams - and he bites the thin line of his lip, ‘but I don’t think you should. Don’t lay a feast out for me tonight, not when I’m feeling so remarkably greedy.’</p>
<p>‘What if I’m feeling greedy too?’ Harry says, and maybe his voice is too quiet for Draco to hear.</p>
<p>Or maybe Draco does hear him, because suddenly Draco’s hands are on his face and Draco’s lips are pressed against Harry’s and they are kissing. It should be hurried, hungry, clumsy - but Draco kisses the way he does everything else, tenderly, carefully, <em>lovingly</em>, and Harry melts like sugar in water. Harry’s hands clutch at Draco’s shirt, fine cotton wrinkling in his fists. Draco’s fingers are cool as they trace down the sides of Harry’s neck, down, down, down, one hand to cup the nape of his neck, the other to splay across the triangle of bare skin beneath his clavicle. </p>
<p>Mass, momentum, gravity - those are the rules of the universe. Even magic must abide by these laws. </p>
<p>Such is the inescapable force that drags Harry back to Draco again and again - and in this single, devastating moment, as the stars tumble wildly overhead, and Harry can taste the thrum of Draco’s magic on his tongue - so very different from the gunpowder sting of hexes and the icy snap of wand magic. This is the taste he loves the most.</p>
<p>
  <em>This is the man he loves the most.</em>
</p>
<p>Draco pulls away first, his breath falling raggedly against Harry’s swollen lips. His hand hovers above Harry’s thundering heart. He opens his eyes slowly, and they are luminescent.</p>
<p>‘Easier than breathing,’ he whispers, and Harry realises that he’s tired of running from what he wants. </p>
<p>Harry traces the pad of his thumb over the arch of Draco’s brow. ‘Draco, I-’</p>
<p>‘Harry!’ shouts George, suddenly materialising above them. ‘Seamus has set himself on fire, we need your help with- oh, shit, sorry lads.’ His eyes are wide as he takes in their tangled bodies, Draco’s rumpled shirt, Harry's swollen mouth and the hand still cupped at the back of Harry’s neck. </p>
<p>Draco turns ashen, scrambles to his feet, and Apparates away with a soft pop.</p>
<p>Harry gets to his feet slowly. The stars keep spinning out above him and the world rolls viciously beneath. The grass still carries the indentation of Draco’s shape, and the champagne bottle sits in the same place it was first discarded.</p>
<p>‘You have shit timing, mate,’ he says, looking up at George. ‘Fucking <em>atrocious</em> timing.’ He drags his hands through his hair, inhaling deeply through his nose. ‘Right, fuck it, let’s go save Seamus.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Harry wakes with a jolt to find Ron and George looming above him. He rubs the fatigue out of his eyes, still bleary from sleep, and adjusts his glasses. Ron’s hair looks like it’s been attacked by a small cyclone, and George is grinning maniacally.</p>
<p>‘What’s up?’ Harry asks.</p>
<p>‘We’ve figured it out,’ George says, and he thrusts a scroll into Harry’s hands. </p>
<p>Harry frowns down at George’s notes. His handwriting is nearly as bad as Ron’s - honestly, how do they even <em>function</em>? - but once Harry manages to decipher the incomprehensible scrawl, it’s actually fucking <em>genius</em>.</p>
<p>‘Merlin,’ Harry utters, shaking his head. He looks up at George, shaking his head slowly. ‘<em>Christ</em>. This is going to work. This is actually going to work.’</p>
<p>Ron breaks into a vicious grin and slaps Harry on the back - hard. ‘Let’s go save Malfoy.’</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Are you having feelings yet? I’m having feelings.<br/>Also, chaotic weddings are the absolute best kind, I love me a good, messy party. Gosh I love the Weasleys. I love them so much. <br/>The next few chapters are going to take a lot of choreographing, and it’s going to get a lot more graphic/gruesome, so I might have to change my ratings/tags. Bear with me, I promise there is sweet sweet sweet fluff on the horizon. Also, in this house, we use Chekhov’s guns - still more juicy juicy plot to come.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. we love such vulnerable things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>His eyes are like starlight when he looks up at Harry.<br/>‘Harry,’ he whispers. ‘You came.’</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: Graphic depictions of violence. Blood. Knife-like wounds.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘You’re sure you’re up for this?’ Blaise asks, his voice lowered as he squints at the bottle of wine in his hand. ‘That’s some complicated enchantment you boys cooked up. It’s not going to be an easy one to cast.’</p><p>Harry arches an eyebrow in reply. ‘Isn’t this what the Department of Mysteries hired me for?’</p><p>It would have certainly been a difficult task for eighteen-year-old Harry to learn the motions of the spell, but he’s been doing complex spellwork for nearly two decades. He memorized the lock-picking spell in the space of one evening - tracing the motions of the spell with his fork through dinner, familiarizing the muscles in his arm and chest with the precise pulses of magic that course from magical core out to his fingertips. </p><p>Blaise waves his wand at his face, dropping the cosmetic charms and revealing his handsome features. ‘Didn’t mean to insult, Professor,’ he grins, flashing very white teeth. He jerks his head towards the door. ‘<em>On y va.</em>’</p><p>Harry gives a sharp nod. He gives the door a few polite knocks and steps back.</p><p>Narcissa answers the door after a brief delay. She’s got a pashmina shawl draped over her, but Harry can glimpse the purpling bruises on her shoulders beneath the sweep of cloth. He thinks back to similar bruises glimpsed years and years ago, scattered across a teenage boy’s skin, and feels his stomach turn. </p><p>‘Look who I bumped into,’ Harry says, forcing himself to smile cheerfully. He jerks his thumb in Blaise’s direction. ‘I ran into him yesterday and said I was visiting. I thought it would be nice to drop by together to see you before I head back across the pond.’</p><p>‘Darling,’ Blaise greets.</p><p>She lets him press a kiss into her cheek, her eyes crinkling as her face lights up with a wide, genuine smile. ‘Blaise,’ she says, looking him over as they draw apart. ‘You look well. I’m so pleased you came to see me. And with Mr. Potter, too.’</p><p>Blaise steps in through the door with one smooth, elegant motion. He presses the wine into Narcissa’s hand. ‘Mother’s current beau has a fantastic vineyard in Argentina,’ he explains. ‘One of his very few redeeming qualities - but you know how Mother is. Brilliant taste in clothing. Terrible taste in men.’ </p><p>Narcissa laughs at this - a light, pleasant noise. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard her laugh like that. He wasn’t even sure she was capable of it. Blaise guides her down the corridor towards the living room, gently nudging her forwards with the sheer width of his shoulders and his ridiculous height. </p><p>Blaise launches into conversation straight away - <em>Now, Pansy informs me you’ve been engaging in some light Muggle reading - </em>leaving Harry to shut the door behind them and start a broad sweep of the apartment.</p><p>Harry’s Anchors are at their lowest setting so that he can feel as much of the Lopez Panic Room as possible when he starts weaving George’s spell. There are a multitude of charms keeping the apartment running. Each and every one of them whisper to Harry as he treads over the ornate rug towards Narcissa’s living room. It’s unpleasant - there’s a ringing in his ear and an ache building behind his eyes, but he can still focus through it. </p><p>Blaise pours the wine into crystal glasses. ‘This is really quite a lovely year,’ he announces, turning the bottle over so that Narcissa can read the label. ‘Though it was an absolute disaster getting these grapes harvested that year - Paul insists on never using any magical creatures to work on his farm. I’m not sure if that’s bigoted or not, but well, it reduces the process to something almost Muggle. Do you want to hear about it, darling? It’s hilarious.’</p><p>Narcissa sips at her wine. ‘Go on,’ she says, gesturing at Blaise. It’s the same, strange, polite gesture Harry’s seen Draco produce a hundred times.</p><p>Blaise grins. ‘Brilliant.’ He launches into a story about a plague of metallic beetles attacking his stepfather’s vineyard, and the man’s belief that it’s all a conspiracy by his competitors to ruin his business. </p><p>Once he’s sure Narcissa’s attention is absolutely focused on Blaise, Harry reaches out with his awareness, seeking out that quiet harmony of Draco’s magical signature chiming against the low hum of his Anchors. </p><p>He finds it almost instantly. It’s in the same place, hidden in the walls behind the settee. It feels weaker than before. Bile rises in Harry’s mouth, but he bites down any kind of reaction. </p><p>Harry glances at Blaise as he rolls into his second story. The Unspeakable’s expression turns grim as he receives the silent message - <em>he’s here</em>. He gives Harry a near-imperceptible nod, his speech never once faltering. </p><p>
  <em>It’s time.</em>
</p><p>Harry turns to look at Narcissa. She’s watching them both with a keen eye - they haven’t gone unnoticed. Her lips drawn into a tight, bloodless line. She arches her eyebrows questioningly. Harry holds a finger up to his lips. With his other hand, he slides his wand from its holster at his thigh. Narcissa’s face turns ashen, but inclines her chin in understanding.</p><p>Harry begins to cast, dropping down within the burning maelstrom of his magic. His hand moves in the practiced motions as he builds a river between his core and the lock-picking spell. Magic pours greedily down his arm, seeking out the Lopez Panic Room’s enchantment like mercury running towards magnets. George’s creation is <em>perfect</em>. Harry feels the last component of the spell hover at his fingertips, and he holds it steady, hovering just above completion.</p><p>He opens his eyes and looks at Blaise. <em>Ready?</em> he mouths. </p><p>The Unspeakable pulls his wand from the hidden sheath in the sleeve of his shirt. He gives Harry a small nod.</p><p>Harry releases the last bit of the spell, and the Lopez Panic Room gives an angry little shudder as it unlocks. </p><p>The wall behind the settee folds outward like crisp paper, revealing a second, smaller apartment, lit by a hundred lights embedded into the walls. There are papers scattered over the small cot in the corner of the room, over the desk, on the floor, and pinned to the walls. Draco kneels on the ground and Lucius stands above him, his wand pointed at the back of his son’s neck.</p><p>Harry’s head swims with relief.</p><p>
  <em>Alive alive alive alive alive alive alive.</em>
</p><p>Draco looks up at Harry. An ugly, purple-green bruise spreads over the rise of his cheekbone, and there is a cut at the top of his hairline, but he is there, in flesh and bone. Not dead. <em>Alive.</em></p><p>Harry moves before his brain can catch up, vaulting over the back of the settee in one smooth, well-oiled motion. </p><p>Lucius looks up in surprise, his wand jerking up to point at Harry’s chest. His mouth opens and a curse comes flying out of the tip of his wand, straight towards Harry, but Harry’s always been faster than his opponents. He eviscerates Lucius’s clumsy spellwork with a dismissive flick of his wand. With the next sweep of Harry’s wand, Lucius’s wand comes flying out of his hand and snapping into Harry’s outstretched palm. Behind him, Blaise’s voice murmurs out an incantation as he casts a protective shield over Narcissa. </p><p>Draco’s skin is pale, and he looks sickly and thin, but his eyes burn with a fury that makes Harry’s heart leap with hope. And then there’s his hands - Draco’s beautiful, long-fingered hands - clenched into angry fists on his lap. </p><p>Draco’s hands are not shaking.</p><p>
  <em>Thank Merlin and Christ.</em>
</p><p>Blaise comes to stand beside Harry. </p><p>‘You <em>traitor</em>,’ Lucius spits at the Unspeakable.</p><p>Blaise only bares his teeth in a deadly smile. ‘There’s nowhere to run, Lucius,’ he drawls, lifting his wand. ‘No one can Apparate in or out of here - we’ve set up wards. You’re welcome to splinch yourself trying, of course,’ he adds. </p><p>Harry watches Lucius’s face as shock and fear morphs into wild, desperate rage. He sees it before it happens, <em>feels </em>the curse take shape within Lucius’s body, but he can’t move fast enough.</p><p>Lucius pulls a second wand from his pocket - <em>Draco’s </em>- and slashes an arc through the air. The curse hits Draco across his abdomen.</p><p>‘<em>No</em>!’ Harry roars. His magic rips out of him in a tidal wave.</p><p>Lucius flies back against the wall. The mortar cracks from the impact, his body making a satisfying crunch before he slides to the floor, unconscious.</p><p>Harry turns toward Draco, reaching out, trying to run towards him, but it’s like he’s moving through water and Draco is a hundred miles away. Draco’s shirt falls apart in strips. Beneath, his skin, his flesh, his bone split like butter beneath a hot knife as the severing curse rips his chest open. His mouth opens as he stares down at the blood spilling from his body, dark and impossibly red. It runs in rivulets over his fingers as he presses his hand to the gaping wound.</p><p>His eyes are like starlight when he looks up at Harry.</p><p>‘Harry,’ he whispers. ‘You came.’</p><p>And then Draco falls.</p><p>Narcissa lets out a shrieking scream that shakes the very walls of her apartment. </p><p>-</p><p>On sleepless nights, Harry finds himself returning to the letter. He unfolds it carefully and reads it at the kitchen table by the light of his wand, so as not to wake Ginny. It is the thing that comforts him when he wakes, trembling and sweating, from his worst nightmares - when all he can hear is that cold laughter and his mother’s scream.</p><p>When he finishes, he turns the letter over and looks out past the doorway, into the darkness that stretches out in Grimmauld Place.</p><p>He thinks of Malfoy on the train, eyes bruised and face twisted in fear, frustration, and rage. Malfoy’s foot coming down on Harry’s face. Malfoy’s wand whipping out towards Harry, his face contorted with fury and hatred.</p><p>But then he thinks of Malfoy’s hands shaking as he presses his own wand to his neck. Malfoy’s lopsided smile in the flat light of Costa’s, Malfoy laughing, pink-cheeked in the snow, Malfoy stacking books, hair curling from the heat of the tiny store. And then he thinks of Malfoy smiling gently down at Teddy, slumbering with his head buried in Malfoy’s shirt.</p><p>And he reads the letter again.</p><p>-</p><p>
  <em>Dear Potter,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I once resented you for not taking my hand, for so publicly refusing my offer of friendship. In hindsight, I realise you were right to reject me. You see, I was under the rather mistaken belief that I was extending my hand to the Boy Who Lived, heir to the lucrative Potter inheritance, celebrity and potentially the most powerful wizard in existence. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I did not yet know that I was, in fact, attempting to befriend Harry James Potter - a position for which I did not possess the necessary requirements.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To qualify as a friend of Harry Potter, one must be kind, compassionate, forgiving, and brave. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You and I both know that I have never displayed such qualities during our time in school. I could, perhaps, list all the cruelties I have inflicted on people - the multitude of inconsequential little pranks I pulled in school, the children I tormented, the atrocities I uttered, the bigotry I preached. It would be a long and unpleasant list, and much of it has already been said by the wizarding public. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps I could blame my family’s corrupting influence for the monster I became - but one does not use one’s suffering as an excuse if one wishes to be worthy of Harry Potter. After all, you have suffered more than all of us, and you have found within you the strength to be kinder and braver and more compassionate than anyone I have ever known. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>At my trial, you told the Wizengamot that I was one of the bravest people you knew. You said I looked into the eyes of Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange, devoted to and beloved by the Dark Lord himself, and lied - and in doing so, saved your life. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I had rather lost sight of reality, in those long months living under Voldemort’s oppressive rule. His shadow has sunk into the stones of my ancestral home, and the bloodstains of his victims shall never truly wash out, so I hope whoever has purchased the Manor from us will raze it and burn the ruins until there is nothing left but ash. In that dark place, it is easy to forget that there were once things like courage, honesty, justice, mercy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They should make all lighthouses the same green as your eyes, Potter, for no other colour could pierce the darkness and the mist and the rain like that wonderful, frightening green. I saw in your eyes the world you were fighting for - and even if I could not find the bravery within me to save you, to help you and your friends escape from the Manor, I am selfish enough to think that the world you reside in might one day have room for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When I lied to my aunt, I was saving that future space for myself in your sunlit world - a far cry from an act of bravery.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bravery is flying into Fiendfyre to pluck an enemy from the flaming jaws of death. Bravery is standing and facing the monster who murdered your parents, knowing that you must die in order to save a castle full of innocents and find a way to be willing to do it. Bravery is doing the right thing when it would be easier, safer to hide. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I likely shall never be as brave as you deserve from me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have not been kind, nor have I been compassionate, but I am trying my best to be. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I do not want to become the creature my father designed me to be. I want to look inside myself and not be ashamed of what I see there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Suffice to say, Potter, I am still unworthy to be your friend. But, if you are willing, I would like to shake the hand of the man who saved me, to thank him for being the incandescent trail of light guiding me through the endless night of my misery. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Until then, I remain yours faithfully,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>       Draco Malfoy</em>
</p><p>-</p><p>There is so much blood. The floor is wet with it, the rug stained so dark it looks almost black, and Harry’s knees slip in it as he scrambles to his knees. He gathers Draco in his arms. <em>Merlin, there is so much blood. More blood than one person should contain. </em></p><p>‘No, no, no,’ Harry moans. ‘Draco, <em>no</em>.’</p><p>Draco makes an ugly, gurgling sound in his throat. Crimson seeps from his lips, stark against the pallor of his skin. He peers up at Harry as though through a thick fog. Harry’s hands are trembling even as he begins to cast. He needs to move faster, to complete the countercurse before it’s too late, before Draco loses too much blood. </p><p>‘I knew you’d come,’ Draco whispers. He reaches up a hand. The fingers that brush against Harry’s tearstained cheek are turning blue - a sign that shock is setting in. ‘My darling idiot.’</p><p>‘Draco,’ says Harry, nearly blind with desperation, ‘stay with me, <em>please</em>.’ </p><p>He finishes the countercurse, sealing up that awful wound at last, but the blood won’t return to Draco’s body. Instead it spreads outwards, reaching dark tendrils over Narcissa’s rug, out across the tiled floors of the Panic Room.</p><p>Draco’s skin is growing cold, but he looks at Harry with such tender warmth, such beautiful, <em>wonderful</em> softness. ‘I knew you’d find me,’ he says. ‘You always find me.’ </p><p>Then his eyes roll back in their sockets and he goes limp.</p><p>‘Stay alive, Draco, please,’ Harry whispers. He presses Draco’s body to his chest, his fingers cradling the back of his neck. So cold. So pale. ‘Stay alive. Please, for me.’ </p><p>Draco’s white-blond hair is clumpy and matted, and Draco’s breathing rattles in his chest as the blood froths at his lips, but somehow it’s Harry who is falling apart, like <em>his</em> heart is being ripped asunder. Draco feels as though he is made of ice - but they made a promise to each other and Draco can’t break it - <em>not now</em>. Not after everything.</p><p>The anti-Apparition wards press in on Harry’s awareness as his magic soars outward, looking for any exit, any crack in the barriers. There are none. </p><p>Blaise’s work is thorough. They’ll never get to the hospital on time.</p><p>So Harry drops his awareness down, beneath the concrete and brick and steel and steady magic of the apartment building, beneath the foundations, into the soil and earth and rock below, until he hits the coursing, thrumming river of magic that runs there. The ley line calls to him, yanking on the threads of his magic temptingly. It would take one small leap, just one small, inconsequential leap.</p><p>Harry grips Draco tightly in his arms.</p><p>Blaise’s voice sounds in Harry’s ears - a warning perhaps, if he knows what Harry is about to do, knows what this will mean for the laws of magic and the rules of their universe, but Harry never hears the rest of it.</p><p>He dives into the current and lets it carry them away.</p><p>-</p><p>Nurses scream and scatter as Harry reappears in a hallway in St Mungo’s. People don’t normally Apparate between countries, it’s not supposed to be possible, but he’s Harry fucking Potter, Master of the Deathly Hallows, so he’s going to do whatever the fuck he wants if it means saving the man he loves.</p><p>‘Get a Healer!’ he barks at the nearest nurse. ‘<em>Now!</em>’</p><p>They roll Draco away, casting diagnostic spells as they go, and Draco is so pale and limp and quiet between them that Harry wants to scream. </p><p>They don’t let him enter the operating room, so Harry ends up sitting outside with his awful, spiralling thoughts. He stares down at his boots and tries not to think about the dark stain growing on Narcissa’s rug. The fingers of crimson spreading outwards. The flash of pink and white and red of Draco’s insides. The blood drying on his trousers, the sticky residue on his shirt. </p><p>He buries his head in his hands and the world comes crashing down, it all comes crashing down on him, because they were supposed to have more time, they were supposed to have the rest of their lives, and now-</p><p>And now it might be too late.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I do love my angst. I hope you do too, because ch 11 is going to be pretty angsty too. Don’t worry though, I’m also a stickler for happy endings.<br/>(It’s a short one, I know. Hopefully the next chapter will make it up.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. st. mungo's</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry leans forward against the tiles and tries to remember how not to collapse beneath the weight of it all, but the world is a heavy, awful place and he is buried beneath the shock and the grief and the long, abysmal years of his life that will yawn before him if he is without Draco’s light.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: description of OC death, mentions of being trapped, serious injuries</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry stares at the half-eaten Wispa in his hand as though it might give him some sort of revelation. He can feel his brain struggling against the heavy weight of fatigue. His face feels mildly fuzzy. His fingertips have a tingling in them that makes Harry worry he’s given himself temporary nerve damage from overwork. He wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and pass out - but he’s got three hours left on duty, and they’re nowhere closer to catching the orphanage bombers than they were last month. Or the month before.</p><p>The body count makes Harry sick.</p><p>‘Circe, Potter, don’t pass out on me,’ Prentis frowns, leaning over to peer into his face. ‘I’ve got some Pepper-Up left if you want any.’</p><p>Harry shakes his head. ‘I’m at the week’s limit for potions,’ he replies. ‘The sugar should help me. I think.’</p><p>He shoves the rest of the chocolate bar into his mouth and crumples the wrapper in his fist.</p><p>Prentis shakes her head. ‘Maybe you should fix your Anchors back up,’ she suggests.</p><p>They’re on break in the alleyway next to Fortescue’s, halfway through a sweep of Diagon Alley. It hasn’t snowed yet today, but the air is viciously cold. The Aurors received a lead last week that there might be another attack - but they’ve had as many false leads as good ones, and this chase has gone on for years now.</p><p>
  <em>Merlin, he’s so tired.</em>
</p><p>Harry’s had his Anchors modified to their lowest setting for three days now. Daphne is vehemently against it, but he’s desperate not to count corpses again - he’ll do anything, absolutely anything to prevent another attack, even if it means burning himself out. </p><p>But he still hasn’t caught anything yet. Not even a whisper of a spell.</p><p>‘I want to keep looking,’ Harry tells Prentis.</p><p>She gives him an incredulous look, opening her mouth to tear into him, but she’s cut off suddenly by an earth-shuddering boom. </p><p>Another boom sounds, then another, and then a horrible, brick-breaking, wood-splintering crack. Wild shrieks of agony and fear pierce the air. The bright green of magical flame colours the night sky. </p><p>‘Shit,’ curses Prentis. She yanks her wand out of her holster. ‘<em>Shit</em>.’</p><p>She sprints towards the front of the alley. Harry draws his wand, conjuring up a Patronus to alert the others.</p><p>‘Prentis, wait for backup!’ he yells, starting after her.</p><p>A pillar of roaring fire and rubble crashes into the air as the next explosion erupts from the street beneath them, consuming Prentis whole.</p><p>Harry stares at the black brand on the wall where Prentis used to exist. She didn’t even have time to scream. The fire burns, the same green as infection and sickness, its flames reaching eight feet into the sky. Harry’s mouth tastes of ash and charred bone. There’s a ringing in his ears that grows louder and louder.</p><p>He can’t seem to move.</p><p>Prentis is gone. <em>Gone</em>.</p><p>A horrible, impossible groan sounds through the very centre of the world. Harry comes alive, fear flooding his veins with sharp, prickly adrenaline. </p><p>He tries to run - even towards the roaring, unnatural flames now eating up the street, but the ground opens up like a mouth beneath Harry, cobblestones dropping away into the vast emptiness. His foot hits thin air and he plummets down, down, down. The last thing Harry sees as he falls into the pit is the world toppling inwards like a house of cards, buildings shaking loose of their structures and tumbling after him with all their stone and brick and splintered wood, and beyond that, green fire eats the stars.</p><p>-</p><p>It’s about three in the morning when Daphne shakes Harry awake. He doesn’t know exactly when he dozed off, only that his neck is stiff and his glasses are askew. He jerks upright, trying to peer past the Healer’s shoulder at the frosted glass of the doors separating him from the operating room. </p><p>‘Is he-’</p><p>‘Haven’t heard,’ Daphne says grimly, cutting Harry off before he can finish his question. She must be coming off a long shift. There are dark circles under her eyes, and he can sense the faint buzz of Pepper-Up in her veins. </p><p><em>Bollocks</em>. He hasn’t modified his Anchors back to their usual levels. </p><p>Daphne seems to sense it too, her dark eyes narrowing in displeasure as she surveys him. ‘Hm.’ She digs around in the pockets of her lime-green robes and shoves a small bronze coin at him. ‘Here’s the pass for the showers. Go get cleaned up.’</p><p>Harry sneaks another furtive glance at the doors. ‘Daphne, I can’t-’</p><p>‘You’re scaring the other visitors,’ Daphne states flatly. She flicks her gaze pointedly at the crusting blood caking Harry’s clothes, the stains on the polished floor beneath his boots. </p><p>Harry winces. ‘Ah.’</p><p>‘And adjust those Anchors,’ Daphne orders him. ‘Or I’m putting you in a bed too.’</p><p>Harry knows better than to argue. He plucks the token from Daphne’s fingers, promising her that he’ll get cleaned up and get some rest if <em>she</em> promises she’ll go home and sleep.</p><p>St. Mungo’s staff showers are actually quite fancy - they’d put the Hogwarts prefects’ bathroom to shame. There’s a House Elf on standby wearing lime-green socks (presumably paid a living wage thanks to Hermione’s relentless creature welfare work in the earlier years of her career) who takes Harry’s blood-stained clothes without flinching, though perhaps she’s rather used to it. Healing is bloody work. </p><p>Harry foregoes the delightful-looking baths for the shower cubicles. He keeps his wand in sight, his holster hanging from a peg on the door, because he can still feel the ringing of Lucius’s severing curse in his ears and he can’t help but resort to old habits. </p><p>The blood is near impossible to scrub out, but the hot water feels like salvation. The Anchors pull up over him, and it’s almost like Draco is near. He closes his eyes and suddenly he can feel the ghost of Draco’s fingertips on his face, his sweetwater magic swimming in Harry’s veins. Harry leans forward against the tiles and tries to remember how not to collapse beneath the weight of it all, but the world is a heavy, awful place and he is buried beneath the shock and the grief and the long, abysmal years of his life that will yawn before him if he is without Draco’s light.</p><p>-</p><p>Harry can’t feel his feet. Every breath is agony. His lungs feel as though they have been pressed in a hundred places with a hot brand. His ribs are broken - his spine too, perhaps, or maybe it’s the blood loss that’s made him lose feeling in his legs. He knows there is a wound in his side - but this has long since grown numb. It has been days - or perhaps years - since the world collapsed on top of him and trapped him here in this hell of dust and crumbling mortar. </p><p>Far above him he can glimpse a narrow tunnel of light, a patch of blue sky. But it is distant - torturously unreachable. </p><p>A ringing has started in his ears, and the corners of his vision are going grey and grainy, like television static. He’s so tired. If he just closed his eyes for a minute, wouldn’t that be alright? </p><p>He clenches his fingers and feels the Wispa packet still locked in the vice of his hand. He hears Draco’s voice in his ear, soft and sweet, like a trickle of springwater falling down through the rubble.</p><p>
  <em>Stay alive.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For me, stay alive.</em>
</p><p>Harry remembers the rain coming down in icy sheets, of rain-darkened hair flattened against Draco’s pale skin, the small indentation next to his mouth that appears only when he smirks, the translucent-starshine colour of his eye, the gasp of warmth of Draco’s fingers wrapped around Harry’s wrist as they run for cover. And then he remembers sitting beside the fireplace in the Cornwall house, Draco’s weight as much an anchor as the ink and magic branded into Harry’s skin, the murmured words, the taste of merlot, the smell of lavender, and the slow ember of Harry’s desire glowing within his rib-cage, just adjacent to his heart. </p><p>It takes every last ounce of strength left in him to stay awake, but he does. </p><p>He made a promise, after all.</p><p>-</p><p>The Healers move Draco into the Spell Damage ward a few minutes after sunrise. They normally put a time limit on visitors but the Healer in charge of Draco’s case - a middle-aged woman by the name of Thompson - seems to take pity on Harry and sets up a cot for him in Draco’s room.</p><p>
  <em>Alive alive alive alive alive.</em>
</p><p>They put Draco into a magically-induced coma so his body can heal, uninterrupted. There was significant curse damage, the Healers say. <em>The nerves need to heal. His magical core is unstable. We do anticipate a full recovery.</em></p><p>They skirt around the words, but Harry knows the implications. He’s had these conversations with Draco before - bleak, dry-eyed conversations late into the night while they sit elbow-to-elbow in Grimmauld Place, drinking tea by the fire. </p><p>Lucius tortured him.</p><p>Harry watches Draco’s face, thin and pale against the pillows, his body an array of motionless ridges and bumps beneath the hospital sheets. He hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten, hasn’t managed to move an inch from Draco’s side. He clings to the meagre comfort of tracking the rise and fall of Draco’s chest.</p><p>Hermione is the first of their friends to arrive. She drops by at seven in the morning on her way into work, bringing a coffee and pastry for Harry. He touches neither, transfixed by Draco’s quietness, his absolute stillness. He can feel the monitoring spells hovering above Draco, clicking away like the tiny gears of a hundred clocks. </p><p>‘It’s going to be alright, Harry,’ Hermione says, softly, with undeserved kindness. ‘He’ll pull through.’</p><p>Harry rubs his swollen, tired eyes. ‘You don’t know that,’ he says.</p><p>Hermione pulls over a chair and sits down next to Harry. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it tight. ‘I do,’ she says firmly. ‘He’s stronger than you think. Much stronger than any of us could ever be.’</p><p>Harry shakes his head. ‘I can’t lose him,’ he whispers. He tears his gaze away from Draco to look at her properly. ‘He means… he’s <em>everything, </em>Hermione.’</p><p>She smiles at him, grooves setting into the corners of her eyes as she strains against her tears. She might not love him the way Harry does, but she loves him - deeply, unequivocally, in that fierce way that only she can. </p><p>‘I know,’ she says. ‘I know.’</p><p>-</p><p>Ron drops by in the afternoon, looking extremely rumpled and stinking of Portkey magic. He and George have been through two full days of debriefing by the Unspeakables, and the Belgian, French <em>and</em> British Aurors too - but he’s still stopped by to see Draco before going home to his family. Harry feels a rush of affection for loyal, lion-hearted Ron.  </p><p>‘Proudfoot wanted to interview you,’ he tells Harry. ‘Get your statement for what happened at Narcissa’s.’</p><p>‘Proudfoot can fuck right off,’ Harry states, his eyes still fixed on Draco.</p><p>‘Yeah, I said the same to him,’ Ron nods. ‘It might’ve been a while since I was on the force, but I still know Ministry procedure. He can’t talk to you unless an Unspeakable gives him clearance, which I told him, except then he was stupid enough to put his foot in it and file his application with Blaise.’ </p><p>Harry turns in his seat to look at Ron, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.</p><p>‘Bloody hell, mate,’ Ron whistles, long and low. ‘You should’ve seen it. Snape’s got nothing on Blaise when he’s proper ticked off. Blaise starts listing off every single case of improper conduct Proudfoot has been involved with, every grey-ish spell he’s cast, every single dodgy associate, every time he’s looked the other way when someone powerful’s done something illegal. I might’ve felt a bit sorry for the poor bastard, if he wasn’t genuinely an incompetent sod.’</p><p>‘Thank you, Blaise,’ Harry says, shaking his head.</p><p>Ron huffs a quick, short laugh. ‘Thank you, Blaise, indeed.’ He cocks his head to the side as he surveys Harry’s extraordinarily dismal appearance. ‘You look like shite. Have you slept any?’</p><p>‘Is this an intervention?’ Harry asks wearily. </p><p>Ron shrugs. ‘That’s more Hermione’s area,’ he replies. ‘To be honest, I can’t wait to go home and sleep for three days straight. I’m knackered. I don’t know how you’re still upright.’</p><p>Harry bares his teeth in a grimace. ‘I can’t sleep.’</p><p>Ron pats him on the back with an audible thump. He has large hands to match his ridiculous height. ‘Catch some shut-eye, mate,’ he advises, standing up. ‘Or one of the frightening women in your life will make you.’</p><p>-</p><p>Luna comes by on the third day. She presses a kiss into Draco’s temple, hangs a charm above his bed (all glittering crystals and pieces of brilliantly-coloured wooden beads), and reads him an entire issue of the Quibbler, cover-to-cover. </p><p>She sits with Harry for a while, holds his hand even when he’s unresponsive to her gentle nudges towards conversation. She doesn’t say a word when he finally breaks down crying, long hours of frustration and fear pouring out of him in soundless, heart-wrenching sobs. Her arms have always seemed small and delicate, but they hold him fast as she hugs him tightly through it, until he is done and empty and left with nothing but the gaping hole in his chest and the deep pit of his exhaustion.</p><p>‘He’ll come back to you,’ Luna promises, wiping his face with a handkerchief embroidered with tiny radishes. ‘He always does.’</p><p>Harry almost believes her. </p><p>-</p><p>The potions they have Harry on to manage the pain are extremely potent. He has no concept of what time it is when he resurfaces from the deep abyss of drugged sleep, but he opens his eyes to find Draco at his bedside, gold rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose, reading a rather serious-looking tome.  </p><p>‘Draco?’ Harry croaks, his voice raspy from disuse. </p><p>Draco sets down his book and peers at Harry over the tops of his glasses. ‘Yes, Harry?’</p><p>He fights against the weight of drowsiness. ‘You have to know-’ he manages to say. ‘I have to tell you-’ he breaks off coughing.</p><p>Draco places a thin chip of ice between his lips. It’s all Harry’s allowed for the time being, until his organs grow back. Cold water slips down Harry’s parched throat, soothing it momentarily. This is part of the routine too - Harry opening his eyes, trying to speak, and coughing helplessly until Draco feeds him ice. It would be pretty pathetic if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s a bloody miracle that Harry’s here at all.</p><p>‘What is it that you need to tell me?’ Draco asks, when Harry has recovered. He takes off his glasses, folds them and places them on the bedside table. </p><p>‘You saved me, you know,’ Harry says. ‘Under that rubble, I wanted to give up. To be done.’</p><p>The corners of Draco’s lips tighten slightly, and there is a flicker of <em>something</em> in his eyes - dark, dangerous, frightening, beautiful - but he remains silent, motionless. </p><p>‘But I held on,’ Harry continues. ‘I stayed alive. For the- the Wispa.’ </p><p>‘For a bit of chocolate?’ Draco asks, giving him a look of faint bemusement.</p><p>‘No,’ Harry frowns. ‘For <em>you</em>.’</p><p>Draco’s lips part and he takes a sharp breath. ‘Harry. <em>Harry</em>.’</p><p>‘For you,’ Harry says again. </p><p>Draco turns Harry’s hand, palm-up, and buries his face in it. Harry feels the cup of his hand grow damp and his chest aches with a deep, throbbing pain that has nothing to do with his ruined organs or his broken ribs. It’s not a confession, not quite, but it’s the only thing he knows how to say, the only thing that feels true enough to be permitted to see the light of day.</p><p>But even if he was brave enough to say the words, to admit his long-hidden love, his decade of yearning - even then he does not know how to encapsulate the great universal workings that bind the two of them together, stronger than any deep magic that Harry has ever known.</p><p>-</p><p>Draco wakes on the fourth day. </p><p>Harry is in the hospital cafeteria with Daphne and Luna, sipping at a cup of appalling hospital-quality coffee when Daphne’s token chimes. She looks up at Harry and nods a silent confirmation. </p><p>Harry’s on his feet in an instant, racing towards the elevators. His pulse drums a feverish beat as he charges down the corridors faster than he’s ever run in his life. He nearly collides with the Healer leaving Draco’s room. She says something to him, an explanation of sorts, facts and spells and medical terminology that he stows away for when he’s thinking clearly, and he responds as politely as he can, excuses himself, and then he’s through and in the room and Draco-</p><p>Draco’s propped up against the pillows, coloured in with ash and bone, but his eyes are open, and they are as bright as the universe's worth of stars.  </p><p>‘Harry,’ he says, barely above a whisper.</p><p>Harry stumbles across the room, relief cutting him at the knees and sending him careening into Draco, pulling him up into Harry’s arms as he buries his face into Draco’s shoulder, and even if Draco doesn’t smell like himself (bleach and magic and cotton and detergent and sleep) his magic murmurs beneath his skin in perfect tandem with the marks on Harry’s arms. </p><p>‘Harry,’ Draco sighs. ‘Oh, Harry.’ His fingertips press gently into the nape of Harry’s neck.</p><p>Harry pulls away slightly, just so he can lift his hands from Draco’s ribcage to brace the base of his skull, so Harry can track his thumbs over the rise of Draco’s cheekbones, to feel the warmth of his skin and to know that he is alive. </p><p>‘Fuck,’ Harry says thickly, feeling the tears fall hot and heavy from his eyes. ‘Draco. <em>Draco</em>. I thought I lost you.’</p><p>Draco smiles at him with heartbreaking tenderness, beautiful even in the cold, unforgiving light. ‘Oh, my darling imbecile,’ Draco says. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’</p><p>His fingers are gentle as follows the knobs of Harry’s spine down to his shoulder blades, gentle as he guides Harry’s head downwards to press their foreheads together. Harry can feel Draco’s breath on his face, coming in soft puffs, and Harry feels the air come shuddering up out of his lungs as he tries to clamp down on the sobs threatening to spill out of him. </p><p>‘I made a promise, after all,’ Draco whispers, his eyes fluttering shut. </p><p>Harry closes his eyes, too, and the world with all its colossal weight disappears until there is nothing, nothing but him and Draco, Draco and him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I said ch 11 would make it better? Apparently I lied.<br/>This is the last of the flashback scenes (is it a metaphor for moving on? for new beginnings? who knows!).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. anchors and lifeboats</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>‘How did you do it? How did you find me?’<br/>Harry grins lopsidedly. ‘Actual investigative work.’<br/>Draco arches an eyebrow in mock disbelief.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The scar runs from Draco’s collarbone down to his hip. Harry reaches out and splays his fingers over Draco’s heart, relishing the feel of its steady, strong beat. The curse missed it by an inch. Lucius did not mean for Draco to survive.</p><p>‘I can see you trying to find a way for this to be your fault,’ Draco says, softly. ‘Don’t.’</p><p>‘If I was faster,’ says Harry, his voice coming out ragged. ‘If I’d reacted sooner-’</p><p>‘Harry.’ Draco lifts Harry’s hand off his chest and turns it over so that he can kiss into Harry’s palm. ‘Listen to me. Listen to me very carefully. The only person who is responsible for this scar is the person who cast the curse.’</p><p>Harry is helpless as warmth pools in his chest. Even now, even after what happened, Draco is tender, and Harry simply does not know how to bear it. </p><p>‘I’m sorry I took so long to find you,’ Harry whispers, and maybe what he really means is, <em>I am a coward and I nearly lost you without telling you everything, but I am sitting here with you and I still cannot say it. </em></p><p>Maybe he’s a coward, but it’s not the right time - it’s not, not here in this hospital room, with its bleached blankets and the monitoring spells hovering over Draco. The words sit beneath his tongue like thorns, but behind his ribs, his love is a rose garden choking his lungs, blooming over his heart. </p><p>‘I was hidden in the best magical panic room money could buy,’ Draco points out. ‘<em>No one</em> was supposed to find me.’ He tilts his head slightly as he looks at Harry, the way he does sometimes, like he’s trying to figure Harry out. ‘How <em>did </em>you do it? How did you find me?’</p><p>Harry grins lopsidedly. ‘Actual investigative work.’</p><p>Draco arches an eyebrow in mock disbelief.</p><p>‘Really,’ Harry laughs. ‘I spoke to Michelle, I even met Acquafredda to look through your ledgers. That’s how I found the Lopez brothers and figured out that you’d installed the panic room in Narcissa’s apartment.’</p><p>Draco’s smile fades and he narrows his eyes slightly. ‘But how did you find the room?’ he asks. ‘It’s hidden very well. No spell can locate it, modifiers or not. I’ve hired the best Cursebreakers to try.’</p><p>‘I knew the Panic Room was in Narcissa’s apartment somewhere,’ Harry explains, ‘so when I felt your magical signature, I knew it had to be there - and that you were locked in there.’</p><p>Draco shakes his head slowly. ‘Even if you’re good at locating magical signatures,’ he says, ‘mine would have been so faint it would have been barely recognizable.’</p><p>Harry hesitates - he looks down at his boots, sparkling clean, and remembers when they weren’t. He remembers scrubbing his hands in the hospital showers, remembers the sleepless nights staring at the monitoring spells hovering over Draco’s quiet body. He thinks about the agony of unsaid words, and how small the sting of rejection feels in comparison to that. </p><p>So he rolls up his sleeves, one by one, leans forward close enough to smell the detergent on Draco’s hospital gown, picks up Draco’s hand and sets it against the overlapping black curves of Harry’s Anchors.</p><p>‘These,’ he says quietly. ‘These helped me find you.’</p><p>Draco drops his gaze to the tattoos beneath his palm, before he looks up at Harry, his expression unreadable. ‘What, precisely, does that mean?’</p><p>Harry bites down on his lower lip. There is a precipice that he’s toeing here, and once he takes a step over the edge he might likely never climb back out again. </p><p>‘You’ve never asked me whose magical signature I used for my Anchors,’ he says. ‘And I never… I never knew how to tell you.’</p><p>Draco’s eyes widen as he finally understands. ‘Why would you permanently brand yourself with my magical signature?’ he asks. </p><p>There are a hundred thousand reasons, and Harry doesn’t know where to begin. </p><p>‘You were always my anchor, Draco,’ he says. ‘You, your magic… it was a safe place to go. A haven away from everything.’ He bounces his leg, wound up with nervous energy. His words feel clumsy. Inadequate. </p><p>Draco’s eyes search Harry’s face. ‘I recall you telling me that my magic was soothing to you,’ Draco says slowly. ‘I presume my magic is compatible with yours. Is that why it was the best choice?’</p><p>‘Yes. No. What I mean is,’ Harry says, feeling frustration bubble up in his chest to sting in his mouth, ‘yes. It has to be compatible for it to work, but there’s more. I’m sorry. I’m trying to explain,’ he sighs. </p><p>He bites his lip and remembers Luna telling him a very long time ago, <em>your feelings get all tangled up like string. </em>He’s never been good at untangling, or clearing up his messes - since he was just a child, his approach has always been to just shove it somewhere and deal with it later. </p><p>‘I’m not exactly going anywhere, Harry,’ Draco says, tilting his head meaningfully towards the glimmer of monitoring spells still hovering above, the medical chart clipped onto the foot of the bed. ‘Take your time.’</p><p>Harry takes a deep breath and tries again. ‘I wanted something to remind myself of how it felt to be with you,’ he says. He chooses the words carefully, plucking them from among the garden of his thorny, complex feelings. ‘To be near you. Because I am happier when I am with you. I am more myself when I’m around you. But I also know that I should have asked you before I got the Anchors done. And I shouldn’t use you - us - as a crutch. I’m sorry,’ he adds, quietly.</p><p>Draco’s smile spreads and reaches his eyes, etching deep grooves at the corners. He shifts his grip and so that he can follow the spheres of the Anchors to the soft, delicate place just on the inside of Harry’s elbows.</p><p>‘I see what you’re trying to say. You think this-’ Draco says, gesturing loosely in the space between their bodies, ‘- is a crutch? That using my magical signature for your magical aid would make me upset?’ </p><p>Harry nods silently in reply.</p><p>‘Darling,’ Draco says fondly, ‘I used you as a life raft for years. There were days when the mere effort of existing was like swimming through sludge. But not when I was with you,’ he adds, his eyes shining. ‘You made me feel <em>wonderful</em>. All I want is to do the same.’ His touch drifts over the interlocking spheres inked onto Harrys’ skin. ‘If this is what you want from me, it is yours. Anything you want from me is yours.’</p><p><em>He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying</em>, Harry tells himself. His tongue is lead-studded concrete, his eyes full of coals. </p><p>‘Anything you want from me is yours, too,’ he says. <em>Please let this be what I think he’s saying</em>.</p><p>Draco smiles at Harry, radiant and beautiful and fragile. ‘I already have everything I want.’</p><p>-</p><p>It’s not really allowed, but the nurses and the Healers can’t seem to find the heart to separate the blond man with the chest wound and his dark-haired hero (the one that even the youngest apprentice recognises, the one whose face used to be in all the papers, the one that they’ve stitched together more times than any single person should have to be).</p><p>They lie together in the small, cramped bed with their foreheads touching, their hands clasped tight. There is a sweet stillness to the air around them, as though magic itself is holding its breath just to give the two some long-awaited peace. </p><p>-</p><p>Harry wakes up to the door opening. The world is a blurry smudge of colours - his glasses must have fallen off in his sleep - and he fumbles in the blanket blindly.</p><p>‘Here,’ Draco murmurs sleepily, pressing Harry’s glasses into his palm. </p><p>Harry slides them on to find Teddy smiling lopsidedly at him, a bouquet of baby’s breath and roses in one hand, his duffel bag slung over his shoulders. Harry’s heart feels tender, like skinned knees and fresh bruises, as he looks at his godson. Teddy’s skin is heavily tanned, likely from the long hours working outdoors with Charlie and his dragons, and he’s grown taller, broader - <em>a boy no longer</em>. </p><p>‘Teddy,’ Harry greets with a smile. He slides out of bed, straightening his wrinkled clothing.</p><p>‘Aren’t you supposed to be at your apprenticeship?’ Draco asks, pushing himself up. </p><p>‘Easy there, Uncle Draco,’ Teddy says. He drops his duffle bag onto the floor with an audible thump and walks over to Draco’s side of the hospital bed, placing the flowers down at the foot of the bed. As he bends down to give Draco a hug, his hair shifts from its deep auburn to the same shocking shade of blond as his uncle’s. ‘I’m glad you’re alright.’</p><p>‘Of course I am,’ Draco says, a little reproachful. </p><p>‘Charlie’s asked me to send updates,’ Teddy says, unwrapping himself from his uncle. His hair changes from white-blond to raven-dark as he drags over a chair to sit beside the bed. ‘He’s worried sick about you - the whole Weasley tribe are.’</p><p>Harry helps prop Draco up on the pillows, bracing his neck. Draco smiles at him, brushing his fingertips on the inside of Harry’s wrist just as Harry begins to pull away. An ember warmth spreads through Harry from the space where Draco touches him, and his heart hammers away in his chest as he sits back down. There was something, something new in the way Draco moves around him now, like the world had already shifted in their sleep. </p><p>‘I’m perfectly fine,’ Draco tells Teddy, his fingers still encircling Harry’s wrist. ‘A little weak, maybe. Nothing to worry about - nothing that can’t be healed.’</p><p>Teddy’s gaze drops to where his uncle’s fingers encircle his godfather’s wrist, and then he looks up at Harry. He can change the colour of his hair and warp the shape of his nose and chin however he likes - but the shape and colour of his eyes remain the same. It is an echo of things lost in the war, things that leave a dull ache in Harry’s chest.</p><p>‘Are<em> you</em> alright, Harry?’ Teddy asks. </p><p>Harry feels a rush of love for his wonderful, kind godson. He’s not usually this emotional, but he’s sleep-deprived and a little giddy on whatever the fuck is going on between him and Draco (he isn’t eager to look at it too closely, terrified of it dissolving in daylight), and he doesn’t know how he and Draco and Andromeda raised Teddy to be so <em>good</em>. </p><p>‘It’s fine now,’ Harry assures Teddy. ‘And it was very lovely of you to come. Even if you’re supposed to be in Romania,’ he adds, a little sternly. ‘You worked very hard to get on that course - you don’t want to delay receiving your qualification.’ </p><p>Teddy rolls his eyes. ‘Nobody believes me when I say <em>you’re</em> the strict dad.’</p><p>‘I’m the fun dad,’ Harry argues. ‘I taught you Quidditch. Bought you your first broom. <em>I introduced you to Victor-bloody-Krum.</em>’</p><p>‘Yeah, but only after I made team captain,’ Teddy scoffs. ‘Honestly. We’re having a family emergency, <em>Harold</em>. I think I’m allowed to defer for a month or two.’</p><p>‘We’re very happy to see you,’ Draco says, laughter colouring his voice. ‘Are you going to be staying at Grimmauld Place for the summer or with Andromeda?’</p><p>‘Might have to do a bit of running between the two,’ Teddy replies, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. </p><p>There are tiny, scabbed-over scratches lining his wrists and forearms, likely from having baby dragons crawl all over him. Harry’s seen the same marks on Charlie’s arms and wonders if Teddy will also collect his own archive of scars, and if perhaps there’s no real way to keep your most precious loved ones from harm, only ways to worry after them.</p><p>‘I’ll head there after this, actually,’ Teddy tells them both. ‘I owe Gran a visit. Gran’s been complaining that I’m shit at letter-writing, and to be fair, I am shit at letter-writing. Oh, and I reckon I’ll pick up a part-time job while I’m here as well. I don’t want to be a burden on any of you.’</p><p>Draco seems about ready to chastise Teddy for calling himself a burden (they agreed a long time ago never to use that word with Teddy, not after the cupboard under the stairs and bars on windows, not when they both love him so much) when Healer Thompson walks in. </p><p>‘Mr. Malfoy,’ she greets, pushing her spectacles back up from where they’ve slid to the tip of her nose. She smiles as she takes in Teddy’s appearance beside Harry. ‘Oh, how lovely. Is this your family?’</p><p>‘Part of it,’ Draco replies, ‘yes.’</p><p>‘Lovely,’ she repeats, nodding. She unclips the patient chart from Draco’s bed and squints at it, pushing her spectacles even closer to her eyes.</p><p>Harry has to resist an overwhelming urge to go over there and adjust the strength of her lenses. Draco seems to read his mind, because he flashes Harry a tiny, knowing smirk.</p><p>‘Alright,’ the Healer says, after a beat. ‘It looks like we’ll be able to release you tomorrow - but we’d like you to come back for a check-up every week to monitor your recovery, if that’s alright. I understand your place of residence is in Belgium, is that correct?’</p><p>Draco smooths the wrinkles on his hospital gown with the air of a man adjusting his finely tailored robes. It is devastatingly endearing. ‘Yes. Brussels.’</p><p>Healer Thompson nods and taps her wand on the clipboard. A fine line appears between her eyebrows. ‘Will you have somewhere to stay while you’re in London?’ she asks, glancing up. </p><p>‘Well, it’s not like we have plenty of empty rooms or anything,’ Teddy interjects with a wide grin, lifting his shoulder in a half-shrug - a habit he seems to have picked up from Charlie. ‘Shame about that.’</p><p>Harry flips his hand over and slots his fingers between Draco’s. They fit perfectly together. ‘He’ll be staying with us,’ he clarifies.</p><p>‘Per-fect,’ Healer Thompson says, tapping her clipboard again. ‘Is it the address we have on record for you, Professor?’</p><p>Harry knows they have his address on file next to <em>frequent visitors</em> from his Auror days. ‘Yeah, same one.’</p><p>‘Per-fect,’ the Healer says again, giving the chart one last tap. She pulls a small token out of her pocket, squints at it, and the line between her brows deepens. ‘Right, I’ll leave you boys to it. Do let us know if there’s anything else we can get you to make you more comfortable, Mr. Malfoy,’ she adds, flashing a warm smile at Draco. </p><p>Draco is still staring bemusedly at the middle-aged witch as she exits the hospital room in a hurried stride that Harry’s come to recognize as a Healer’s polite method of getting their ass to the next patient bleeding their guts out. </p><p>‘It’s funny,’ Draco remarks. ‘I couldn’t even get a single consultation here before. They wouldn’t even let me past the reception desk. Oh well,’ he says, winking at Harry. ‘I suppose there is some benefit to being tortured by one’s father after all.’</p><p><em>Gallows humour, </em>Harry thinks, and laughs at the look of abject horror on his godson’s face.</p><p>-</p><p>Neville pops by later that afternoon, to Harry’s great surprise, seeing how it’s a weekday and the middle of the summer term. </p><p>‘You could’ve owled,’ he tells Neville, as the taller man sweeps Harry into a bone-crushing hug.</p><p>‘Yeah, sure,’ Neville grins, patting Harry just a little too hard on the back. ‘If I was a cold-hearted bastard.’ He nods at Draco. ‘Hiya, Malfoy.’</p><p>‘Hello, Longbottom,’ Draco says, awarding Neville a small but genuine smile. He tires easily, even with the various energy-bolstering potions he’s been given. ‘How is the summer term going?’</p><p>‘Not too bad, actually,’ comes the easy reply. ‘We’re coming onto exams in two weeks. It’s chaos and misery in the castle.’</p><p>Neville drags a chair over to sit beside Harry and stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them lightly at the ankles. Harry sometimes wonders who’s taller, Neville or Ron. Neville’s a stealthy one - you don’t know how tall he is until he’s looming over you. Or maybe Harry’s just not very tall.</p><p>‘Speaking of,’ Neville says, turning to address Harry. ‘McGonagall’s giving you the rest of the year off on leave. She reckons you’ll be tied up with the Malfoy case for a while. I’ve already told her I’m taking over your classes and oversee your exams.’</p><p>Harry feels a flash of guilt. ‘Nev,’ he groans, ‘you’re already so busy-’</p><p>‘No I’m not,’ Neville says, cutting him off with a dismissive gesture. ‘And Singh says she’ll help with quidditch practice.’</p><p>Harry winces. <em>Those poor children</em>. </p><p>Neville laughs at Harry’s expression. ‘Anyhow,’ he says brightly, folding his arms over his chest. ‘Harry, you know how Agatha Burns has always been a little excited about the grindylows?’</p><p>An image of the tiny, bushy-haired first-year floats into Harry’s mind, accompanied with a feeling of dread. </p><p>‘Oh, no,’ he says.</p><p>Neville grins. ‘She fell into the tank three days ago.’</p><p>Harry buries his head in his hands. ‘Oh, <em>no,</em>’ he groans. </p><p>‘We had to fish her out.’</p><p>‘Oh. Merlin. No.’</p><p>‘She had one of the little demons clutched to her chest like it was a bloody crup,’ Neville continues, miming the motion with his hands. ‘Said it just needed cuddles. It tried to bite her fingers off,’ he adds with no small amount of glee.</p><p>Harry’s too old for this level of stress. McGonagall is going to kill Harry. She’s going to rip his spleen out and make him eat it. That’s if the Burns family don’t order a hitwizard on him first. ‘<em>Christ</em>.’</p><p>Neville nods, laughing. ‘She’s no longer allowed to sit in the back of the class.’</p><p>Harry lifts his head from the safe oblivion of his hands, pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘I bet she’s happy about that,’ he sighs. </p><p>‘Oh, she’s livid,’ Neville says, clearly entertained by the whole thing. </p><p>Harry sighs heavily. He puts his glasses back on and sits up straight in his chair. ‘Is McGonagall going to order me to get rid of the tank?’ he asks Neville. </p><p>‘I honestly don’t think so,’ Neville replies. He pulls his legs back up, planting his feet firmly on the ground so that he can lean his elbows on his knees. ‘Dangerous creatures are just a part of the wizarding world. You can’t wrap children up in a safety net and hope that they’ll figure it out when they graduate. Besides,’ he adds, ‘we went through far worse when we were their age.’</p><p>Draco smiles and lifts his arm, baring the gnarly, ropy scar that drags across his skin from where Buckbeak clawed him in third year. ‘Hippogriffs,’ he says. </p><p>Harry nods. ‘Dragons and mermaids. Aragog. <em>Fluffy</em>.’</p><p>‘Can you believe that McGonagall makes us file risk assessment forms before each term?’ Neville chuckles. ‘Could you even imagine Professor Dumbledore doing the same?’</p><p>A dark look flashes in Draco’s eyes, and Harry reaches out to grab his hand in warning before he can launch into his usual tirade against Dumbledore’s <em>severely incompetent and reckless treatment of young and impressionable students. </em></p><p>He only realises (a little too belatedly) that Neville’s eyes are now fixed on the place where Harry and Draco’s hands connect. A slow, smug smile spreads on Neville’s face as he glances up at Harry, and Harry can read the assumption loud and clear (<em>sixty points to Slytherin says otherwise</em>) and normally it should make him irritated or flustered or even a little amused, but right now it is a sick, cold stone sitting in his stomach, because despite everything, after this is done, Draco will go back to Belgium, and Harry will return to Hogwarts and his grindylow-loving students, and somehow Harry had forgotten all of that. </p><p>It sits in his gut, sour and curdling.</p><p>‘Right,’ says Neville, slapping his palms on his thighs. He stands up, straightening his jacket. ‘I’ve got to go pick up Ginny. She’s back today from Greenland - reckon she’ll need a hot pasty and a big hug. Harpies lost by three hundred points.’</p><p>Harry clicks his tongue in sympathy. Ginny’s a good sport, but she’s taken her losses rather heavily since she was promoted to team captain. </p><p>‘May we all find husbands as lovely as you, Longbottom,’ Draco says. His hand is warm in Harry’s, his thumb drawing a careful half-circle over the bumps of Harry’s veins. ‘Please do tell me how Miss Agatha Burns fares in future. I find myself quite emotionally invested in her grindylow adventures.’</p><p>‘There will be <em>no</em> further grindylow adventures,’ Harry tells Neville, glaring daggers at him.</p><p>Neville just laughs good-naturedly, waving at the both of them as he leaves.</p><p>Draco drops his head onto Harry’s shoulder and sighs. ‘I do apologize for keeping you away from your students,’ he murmurs.</p><p>Harry turns his head, burying his face in Draco’s hair. It smells like mass-produced hair potions (something that Draco would <em>never</em> allow on his person under ordinary circumstances). ‘I want to be here,’ he says.</p><p>‘Thank you,’ Draco sighs. He pulls away slightly, tilting his chin to meet Harry’s gaze. Dark, hair-thin veins spread out beneath his eyes like deep cracks forking over an icy pond. ‘For being here with me. I missed you terribly.’</p><p>‘I missed you too,’ Harry replies. ‘I’m glad you’re coming home with me tomorrow.’</p><p>Draco looks like he wants to say something, but he bites down on his lower lip and smiles a strange, sad little smile, and then doesn’t say anything else at all. Instead, he sits there, folded into Harry, pressing closer than they really should, and Harry’s heart is too bruised-knees-tender to regret it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We’re just past halfway through the story. Don’t get bored of me yet. Please. I’m sorry. THERE’S JUST SO MUCH PLOT LEFT.<br/>I've been so tired recently I end up writing bullet points like EMOTION HERE and MAYBE THEY KISS GOD I NEED SLEEP. Why do I have a day job? I should just sit at home and write fic all day.</p><p>Next up: a long-awaited confession,Teddy is the Best Boy, Harry tries to explain time magic (poorly), Pansy-f'n-Parkinson, and Lucius does not get what he deserves. At least, not yet.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. equinox</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It feels strange to be tracing these steps again, to fall into this familiar dance, but life is cyclical that way, isn’t it?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pansy sits on the steps of Grimmauld Place, cat-eye sunglasses perched on the top of her head as she leans back to soak in the rays of the late afternoon sun. A glossy shopping bag is perched on the edge of the very top step, the White Company logo embossed on its side. She grins lazily at Harry and Draco as they approach and wiggles her fingers in greeting. </p>
<p>‘You’re here,’ says Draco. ‘I thought you’d be in Paris.’</p>
<p>‘Well, clearly I’m not,’ Pansy retorts. She lurches to her feet, wobbling a little on her ridiculously tall platform shoes. ‘Got you a get-well-soon present,’ she says brightly, shoving the shopping bag into Draco’s hands.</p>
<p>‘How very thoughtful of you,’ Draco says, peering inside the bag. ‘Oh, I’ve always wanted this!’</p>
<p>Harry raises his eyebrows inquisitively at Draco and the other man tilts the bag so that Harry can see the carefully wrapped candle hiding inside. Draco loves his scented candles - a remnant from the days he used to live in that little flat in Muggle London before he passed his parole. </p>
<p>‘Would you like to come in?’ Harry asks Pansy, jerking his head towards the front door. </p>
<p>Pansy looks hesitant, glancing over her shoulder at the old house looming above her. </p>
<p>‘I’ve got fancy tea,’ Harry offers. ‘And I’m sure Kreacher will be overjoyed to see a new face.’</p>
<p>‘Alright then,’ Pansy relents. ‘For Kreacher.’</p>
<p>Kreacher is, of course, overjoyed to see Pansy - <em>any of Master Malfoy’s friends are always welcome </em>- and makes a big deal of preparing afternoon tea for them. Harry manages to negotiate control of the teapot from the overly enthusiastic House Elf, and herds everyone into the living room. The sky is a little overcast, and the muggy heat belies a possible thunderstorm later in the day, but Harry’s got a strict temperature-control spell on in his living room to keep it nice and cool in the suffocating summer.</p>
<p>Pansy drops into the nearest sofa. She makes to lift her feet up onto the cushions but is stopped by a disapproving glare from Draco. </p>
<p>‘Not on the upholstery,’ he says sternly.</p>
<p>‘This isn’t even your house,’ Pansy grumbles, but she adjusts her posture anyways, crossing her ankles and sitting up straight. ‘I’m exhausted, Draco,’ she complains. ‘Those stupid Aurors had me in interrogation for twelve hours.’</p>
<p>Draco winces. </p>
<p>‘Obnoxious little cunts, aren’t they?’ Pansy says with brittle, forced cheer. ‘They told me I couldn’t complain because you were locked in that room for much longer than a measly twelve hours. They told me, you know,’ she says with a sharp laugh. ‘How long you were in there for. They were even so kind as to tell me the exact number of times I was in the same room as you.’</p>
<p>Draco’s grip tightens on Harry’s arm slightly, but the warning is hardly necessary. Pansy’s voice is beginning to climb steadily in pitch, wobbling dangerously. She clenches her fists, shakes them out, and clenches them again. Her knuckles turn bone white. </p>
<p>‘I visited your mother three times a week, every week,’ she continues, ‘and I didn’t have a clue that you were in there. I knew she was behaving weirdly - I knew she was trying to tell me something - I should have <em>known</em>. God, the only reason I could be so <em>fucking oblivious</em> is if I wanted to be.’</p>
<p><em>Those aren’t Pansy’s words</em>. Someone’s placed them in her mind, digging claws into already-tender scars. </p>
<p>‘What did they say to you?’ Harry asks, surprised at how calm he sounds. Rage simmers in his gut, as familiar as an old friend. ‘The Aurors who interrogated you.’</p>
<p>Pansy’s smile is a knife-wound across her face. ‘They said that it was weird I hadn’t noticed,’ she replies. ‘They said I had to either be a complete idiot, or else I was involved with it, somehow. I told them that was stupid, and they told me that I had nothing to worry about if my hands were clean.’</p>
<p>Harry’s anger begins to boil, sending sparks of magic running through his veins down to his fingertips. An Auror should know better than anyone else how heavy the weight of survivor’s guilt can feel, and that the relatives and friends of victims feel it most. It’s part of the bloody training.</p>
<p>He takes a deep breath and pushes his magic down, easing the red-hot energy out of his fingers.</p>
<p>‘But my hands are not clean,’ Pansy says, flipping her palms over. There are tiny, red half-moons peppered over the soft skin there, from where she dug her nails in too hard. ‘I have done so many terrible things to so many people. I was on the wrong side of the war. Everyone knows it.’</p>
<p>‘We both know that’s a lie,’ Draco says with surprising calm. ‘You were a bully and you were cruel to those who deserved kindness, but you were never one of us. You do not bear the Mark. You never swore allegiance. Your wand will never hold traces of the spells that mine did.’</p>
<p>Harry’s never heard Draco speak of the War like this before - awful in its unflinching candour. It’s not that Harry’s forgotten about the dark stretch of sixth year, nor the awful, unforgivable things that Draco has done. He can’t ever forget Katie floating in the air above as though underwater, her cheeks as white as the snow whirling around her, the chilling pitch of her scream. And he’ll never forget Ron - Ron’s eyes rolling into the back of his head, Ron’s pulse fluttering hummingbird-frantic beneath his fingertips, the blind panic of nearly losing yet another loved one to something stupid and senseless - <em>of course he hasn’t forgotten any of it. </em></p>
<p>But he also remembers that one moonless night he sat drinking in Draco’s Muggle apartment (the telly playing in the background, empty wine glasses on the kitchen table, the quiet rumble of Artemis purring away contentedly). He remembers the quiet confessions whispered to him on the floor in front of the sofa, words that ripped through his heart and left a bitter taste in his mouth (<em>I sometimes dream of their faces and it is hard to feel worthy of being alive when their blood stains my hands to this day </em>and <em>perhaps, Potter, the world is kind to cruel people </em>and <em>it should have been me that perished in the fire</em>).</p>
<p>‘There was a line, Pansy,’ Draco says, not unkindly, ‘and you never crossed it. Not once.’</p>
<p>Harry looks at Draco and hears the unspoken words - <em>not like me, you’re not like me </em>- and his heart breaks for the man he loves. </p>
<p>But he also knows that the well of Draco’s love runs deep when it comes to Pansy, and that there is nothing that Draco would not endure for the sake of his best friend, so he holds his tongue.</p>
<p>‘And what happened to me is not your fault,’ Draco says. ‘There was nothing you could have done, Pansy.’</p>
<p>Pansy’s face crumples and she folds inwards, a paper fairy drenched in the rain, limbs turning soggy and falling apart. ‘Then why do I feel so fucking guilty?’ she whimpers. ‘Draco, why do I feel like this?’</p>
<p>Draco is out of his seat before Harry can even move to help him, hurrying across the space and gathering up his best friend into a tight hug. ‘Hush, darling,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s alright. I’m here, see? I’m fine. Everything’s fine now.’</p>
<p>Harry slips away to the kitchen to make tea. They deserve some privacy. Harry fetches Draco’s favourite brand of Earl Grey from within the cabinet and thinks of the way Pansy cried on the street in front of Narcissa’s apartment, and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself. He doesn’t want to think about what might have happened if he’d been a few days later in unlocking the panic room - or if he’d never found it at all. If he’d never found Draco.</p>
<p>He rubs the Anchors on his forearms and huffs out a soundless laugh. Pansy was right after all. Harry found Draco because he loves Draco enough to imprint him on his skin.</p>
<p>
  <em>Magical soulmates indeed.</em>
</p>
<p>He pours water into the teapot, locates enough matching mugs for the three of them, and heads back into the living room.  Pansy’s face is scrunched up with frustration, streaked with dark tracks from where her weeping has melted her mascara, her eyes reddened and slightly swollen. Draco looks tired, dark shadows prominent beneath his eyes, his mouth twisted into a slight frown.</p>
<p>Pansy pushes Draco’s shoulder roughly. ‘This is <em>your </em>fault,’ she growls at him. ‘After everything that’s happened, you still <em>won’t tell him.</em>’</p>
<p>Draco’s shoulders lift in a bone-weary sigh. His gaze wanders over Pansy’s shoulder and he spots Harry standing there in the archway with the tray in his hands.</p>
<p>‘Pansy,’ says Draco, a tone of warning in his voice. </p>
<p>‘But-’ Pansy protests.</p>
<p>‘<em>Pansy.</em>’ </p>
<p>‘<em>Fine</em>,’ Pansy snarls. She turns to glare daggers at Harry. ‘Is that the fancy tea I was promised?’ she demands, jabbing her finger in the general direction of the tray.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ Harry says slowly. ‘Are you alright, Pansy?’ he asks. They were clearly arguing about something important before he walked in.</p>
<p>‘No,’ Pansy snaps. She drops into a chair and folds her arms tightly over her chest. ‘Just give me the bloody tea.’ </p>
<p>Harry extends a cup and saucer to Pansy. She snatches it from his hands and tucks it to her chest possessively, glowering at him as though he’s personally offended her somehow. </p>
<p>Harry decides to ignore the glaring and sits down on the loveseat opposite the fireplace, making himself a nice cup of tea (with three sugars, because he’s earned it). Draco comes to sit next to him in the loveseat, even though there’s a perfectly viable armchair nearby. His body is warm as it brushes up against Harry’s, and he smells faintly of the hospital, but he also smells like himself, and Harry finds himself leaning into Draco almost involuntarily.  </p>
<p>Pansy mutters darkly into her tea about <em>oblivious wankers </em>and then informs them of her disturbingly detailed plan of how she’d like to murder the two of them. </p>
<p>‘I’m not sure you can do that with a corkscrew, Pansy,’ Harry says, once she’s done talking. </p>
<p>‘Don’t test me, Boy Wonder,’ she threatens, jabbing at him with her teaspoon.</p>
<p>Draco twists his head so he can muffle his guffaws in Harry’s shoulder.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>It is nearly two in the morning when Harry pushes his work away to roll the tension out of his back. His limbs feel leaden and his face feels slightly numb - all signs that he’s pushed his body too far with too little sleep. He leans back in the kitchen stool and closes his eyes, listening to the gentle hum of domestic spells rolling away in the different points of his house. </p>
<p>The dishes wash themselves in the sink, piled high from the elaborate dinner Teddy insisted on cooking for them. Apparently, he felt guilty for not being around for ‘Aunt Pansy’s epic meltdown’ and wanted to make it up to Harry and Draco. Harry’s not sure who Teddy inherited his impulsive desire to cook from, but it probably has something to do with him being sorted into Hufflepuff and living so close to the kitchens. </p>
<p>Not that Harry’s complaining. Teddy’s treacle tart is sublime.</p>
<p>Harry drags his too-long hair out of his eyes and casts his gaze upon the fruits of his labour. Rolls of parchment are stacked to Harry’s left, ready to be sent off to Blaise for processing. He’s listed everything he can about the case - the gruelling investigation that led him from Belgium to France, the spells and modifiers involved in locating the panic room, the precise methods used to open it. He has yet to start the report on the raid - the duel, the curse, the improbable Apparation.</p>
<p>Harry is about to reach for his quill again when he hears soft footsteps approaching. Draco emerges from the shadows of the house, a pale figure drawn in soft half-light. </p>
<p>Harry turns in his seat, leaning one elbow on the kitchen table. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ he asks.</p>
<p>Draco shakes his head. ‘No, I was asleep but-’ he breaks off with a sharp inhale, and he looks down at his bare feet. </p>
<p>Harry made sure to give Draco the best guest room, the one with the best light for growing plants, the one that overlooks the garden at the back of Grimmauld Place, the one he designed specifically for Draco - but a beautiful room cannot keep away nightmares. Harry looks down at the blank piece of parchment before him, and then looks up at Draco, and makes a decision. </p>
<p>‘Would you like to come sleep in my room?’ he offers. ‘Would it help?’</p>
<p>‘You’re working,’ Draco says, dropping his gaze pointedly to the papers piled up on the table.</p>
<p>Harry stretches out the cramp in his shoulder. ‘I probably shouldn’t be, at this hour,’ he confesses.</p>
<p>Draco’s expression shifts as a smile ghosts at his lips. ‘No, probably not,’ he agrees.</p>
<p>It’s an old echo of an argument they used to have, on Christmas break and on long weekends, and Harry sitting at a desk or kitchen table slaving away until the wee hours of the morning. It feels strange to be tracing these steps again, to fall into this familiar dance, but life is cyclical that way, isn’t it? </p>
<p>They climb the stairs through the empty, quiet house. Draco leads the way, because he’s seen Harry’s room before. He’s dragged Harry’s inebriated ass into bed too many times to count, after one too many drinks on a night out. He knows the way even in the dark, his steps sure as he finds his way up each creaking stairwell, and the way he moves with such familiarity through Harry’s home makes Harry’s heart <em>ache</em>.</p>
<p>There is a glowing constellation of stars hanging on the wall beside Harry’s bed. It casts a pale light over the bedside dresser, where a photograph of Harry, Draco and Teddy sits angled towards the pillows. Harry will never admit that, on difficult nights, he’s fallen asleep with it clutched in his hands.</p>
<p>They look real in that picture. Two fathers and their young son, wearing paper hats and laughing at the camera as confetti explodes from the pink birthday cake placed in front of them. </p>
<p>Harry tugs off his cardigan and drapes it over a clotheshorse - purchased by Draco and forced upon Harry after one too many shirt-on-chair incidents. He needs a hot shower to ease the knots in his back, and he hasn’t washed his hair in days. </p>
<p>‘I sleep on the right side,’ he shoots over his shoulder as he heads towards the bathroom.</p>
<p>‘I remember,’ Draco says, smiling slightly.</p>
<p>When Harry returns from the shower, Draco is sitting cross-legged in bed, staring at the hanging constellation with a curious, wistful look on his face. He opens his mouth, as if to ask something, but then seems to think better of it. </p>
<p>Harry climbs into bed, takes off his glasses, folding them as he places them on the bedside drawer, and extinguishes the lights with a wave of his hand. He turns over in bed so they can lie together in the dark. Beyond the translucent fall of the curtains, the moon is a butter-white disc in the sky. Draco’s fingertips are icy as they settle possessively over Harry’s forearms. </p>
<p>
  <em>Now.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Now is the time.</em>
</p>
<p>‘Draco?’ Harry says. </p>
<p>‘Hm?’</p>
<p>‘Are you asleep?’</p>
<p>There is a soft sound: a cousin of a laugh, a sibling to a sigh. ‘Not yet,’ says Draco.</p>
<p>Harry takes a breath and squints at Draco’s blurry silhouette. ‘I have something to tell you.’</p>
<p>‘Alright,’ says Draco, and he waits patiently.</p>
<p>In books and films and songs they have wonderful, romantic ways to say it, but Harry’s never been good with words, so he takes another breath and says, ‘I love you.’</p>
<p>Draco’s eyes are wide in the dark. The moon is bright but there are shadows everywhere and Harry can’t see, can’t tell what Draco’s thinking, doesn’t know anything except the thorny garden in his chest that overflows and fills him up until he’s choking on the many-petalled bloom.</p>
<p>‘I know there’s been this… something between us for a while,’ Harry says, frowning. He’s stumbling over his own words, but if he stops now, he’ll lose momentum and courage and then he’ll never get it out. ‘But I’m not expecting anything from you. It’s okay if you- if you don’t feel quite the same.’</p>
<p>‘You don’t think I feel the same?’ Draco asks. He laughs, the sound strangling in his throat like a sob. ‘Harry. I have been in love with you from the moment you stole my wand in the Manor.’</p>
<p>It feels like an explosion in his chest - <em>in love</em> - or perhaps a shimmering set of fireworks - <em>I have been in love</em> - that erupts and spreads throughout his body, into his arms, down into his stomach - <em>in love with you </em>- and it burns in his cheeks and leaves a humming in his ears. </p>
<p>‘I have always loved you,’ Draco says, and Harry struggles to find his breath. ‘Only you.’</p>
<p>‘I didn’t know,’ Harry says, once he remembers how to use his lungs. </p>
<p>Draco’s fingers trace slow circles over Harry’s Anchors, then trail down to his wrists, to his hands, where he interlaces their fingers and holds tight. </p>
<p>‘I know you didn’t,’ he says. ‘I never told you properly - and you’re the sort of person who needs telling. I know that. But I was afraid - afraid that you would remove me from your life once you knew how I felt about you.’ His voice catches in his throat, and he exhales heavily through his nose. ‘I never <em>dreamed</em>, Harry, that you would ever reciprocate.’</p>
<p>‘But at Neville and Ginny’s wedding -’ Harry utters, incredulous. ‘We <em>kissed</em>.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ Draco replies, each of his words pronounced with great care, ‘but I thought that was just the result of unresolved sexual tension.’</p>
<p>Harry’s not sure if he wants to scream, laugh, or cry. ‘Merlin. <em>Christ.</em>’ He pulls their clasped hands up to his chest, where his heart hammers away as though eager to escape the confines of flesh, blood, and bone. ‘What about Ghent? What about when I told you I wanted to build a forever with you? Did you think that was unresolved sexual tension?’</p>
<p>Draco doesn’t reply. His uneven breaths fill the space between them.</p>
<p><em>Maybe he’s the sort of person who needs telling too</em>, Harry realises.</p>
<p>‘I <em>love </em>you, Draco,’ Harry says, low and fervent, desperate for Draco to believe him. ‘With all my heart. In each waking moment.’</p>
<p>Draco squeezes his eyes shut. ‘You know, I used to fantasize about this moment,’ he says. ‘The things I would say. The things I would do. But here I am - here we are - and I must admit, I’m a little too overwhelmed to remember any of the things I wanted to do.’</p>
<p>Harry laughs, champagne-giddy. ‘I’m a bit overwhelmed too,’ he confesses, because he is.</p>
<p>Everything seems more saturated, somehow. Harry feels as though he has fallen into a pocket world of sweet moonlight. He can feel everything and yet, somehow, the only thing he can feel is <em>Draco, Draco, Draco</em>, rising up around him in a tidal wave - the gentle warmth radiating from his body, the cold press of his fingers against the back of Harry’s hands, the slope of the bed that gives way to his weight, his magic enveloping them in its soothing embrace, the blurry shape of his shoulders and the rise of his cheekbone and the dip of his cupid’s bow.</p>
<p>Draco’s hand pulls free of Harry’s, and he cups Harry’s face with a tenderness that threatens to destroy Harry.</p>
<p>‘Can I-’ starts Harry, but then his throat closes in on itself, because Draco’s thumb brushes the corner of his lips and, <em>yes, this is how he will expire.</em> ‘May I kiss you?’</p>
<p>Draco makes that sound again, half sigh, half laugh, and he presses his lips to Harry’s. </p>
<p><em>Easier than breathing</em>.</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t need to breathe, drowning in Draco’s deepwater love. He kisses with aching slowness, each movement gentle. His touch is cool against Harry’s fever-hot skin. His hand traces the rise of Harry’s hip, following the curve of Harry’s body up and over, until it rests on the small of Harry’s back. He is tender, tender, petal-soft and springwater-sweet.</p>
<p>But Harry’s never been very good at maintaining levity, so he pulls away and breaks into a grin. ‘Hey, hey Draco,’ he says. ‘Be my boyfriend. Go on a date with me, won’t you?’</p>
<p>‘You’re an absolute imbecile,’ Draco sighs. ‘Yes, Harry. I’ll be your boyfriend.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Harry wakes alone in bed with the sun streaming in past the curtains and for a moment he thinks that maybe he dreamt it all. But there is a warmth lingering in the sheets, and a familiar scent clinging to Harry’s clothes. Harry leans over and puts his glasses on, the world swimming back into focus, and he recalls the way he fell asleep with his legs tangled up with Draco’s, his face pushed into Draco’s warm chest, Draco’s hands tracing idle patterns on his back. </p>
<p>The bathroom door opens and Draco appears, hair damp from the shower, his cheeks flushed blossom-pink from the hot water. His eyes settle on Harry and suddenly he is more radiant than the sun, his lips curving upwards into a smile as he walks towards Harry’s side of the bed.</p>
<p>‘Good morning,’ he says.</p>
<p>Harry sits up and grins giddily. ‘Hi,’ he says, instead of, <em>oh my god you’re my fucking boyfriend, </em>because Draco’s taught him better manners than that. ‘Did you sleep alright?’</p>
<p>‘I slept wonderfully,’ Draco replies. He leans down as if to kiss Harry on the brow.</p>
<p>Harry lifts his chin and catches Draco’s mouth instead, delirious that he can do this now. Draco makes a soft, pleased noise at the back of his throat that is the most beautiful sound Harry’s ever heard. Harry pulls him down onto the bed with a flick of his wrist, flipping them neatly over. He hovers over Draco, forearms braced against the bed above his head. </p>
<p>‘Show-off,’ Draco smirks, and pulls Harry back in.</p>
<p>The door swings open with a near-inaudible creak. Harry scrambles off Draco quickly, but not quickly enough, apparently, because Teddy is standing in the doorway, his eyes nearly ready to pop out of his head as he stares at them.  </p>
<p>‘Teddy!’ Draco gasps, throwing his hands over his chest as though he isn’t clothed in perfectly acceptable pyjamas.</p>
<p>‘Oh, whoops,’ says Teddy. ‘Sorry. I’ll leave you to it.’ He steps back out of the bedroom, shutting the door with a firm <em>click</em>. </p>
<p>‘Merlin,’ Harry utters, mortified. ‘<em>Christ</em>.’</p>
<p>‘It could have been a lot worse, I suppose,’ Draco says faintly. ‘He could have discovered us in a far more compromising position.’</p>
<p>‘<em>I was on top of you</em>,’ Harry wheezes.</p>
<p>‘Fully clothed,’ Draco points out, sitting up slowly. ‘We must be grateful for small mercies, Harry.’</p>
<p>Harry just makes a pained groan and buries his head in a pillow. </p>
<p>Draco hums in agreement, patting Harry’s shoulder. ‘I suppose we were going to have to talk to him eventually about this,’ he reasons, sounding not even half as panicked as Harry is feeling right now. ‘No time like the present.’</p>
<p>According to Draco, they can’t stay upstairs avoiding their teenage nephew/godson/adoptive son forever, so Harry drags himself out of bed. He has a brief, very professional meltdown as he gets dressed and then they both head downstairs for breakfast. </p>
<p>There’s eggs and bacon waiting for them on the table by the time they reach the kitchen. Teddy watches them steadily as they sit down opposite him. He takes a long sip from the fantastically ugly mug Victoire gifted him on his fifteenth birthday - <em>I’m a Whiz-zard!</em> - and watches the two of them over the kitchen table. </p>
<p>He seems calm. Almost too calm.</p>
<p>‘I apologize if we made you uncomfortable this morning,’ Draco says, breaking the silence. ‘I understand that this - our relationship - might come as a shock to you.’</p>
<p>‘It really doesn’t,’ Teddy replies. ‘I think I’m a little more surprised it took this long.’</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t really know what to say to that.</p>
<p>Teddy sets his mug down and rests his elbows on the table. ‘Look,’ he says, dropping his chin slightly as he levels them both a look. ‘You two are incredibly important to me. You made sure that I never once felt unloved or unwanted. I’ve had a happier family life than most of my friends because of it. I’m always going to be grateful for that.’</p>
<p>Harry’s not crying. He’s just… his glasses are just wonky. Or something.</p>
<p>‘To be honest, I’m happy for you,’ Teddy continues, a gentler tone settling into his voice. ‘I think you deserve to be loved as deeply as you both clearly love each other. As deeply as you both have loved me.’</p>
<p>Draco sniffles - he’s definitely crying. </p>
<p>‘But,’ Teddy says, raising a finger, ‘I’d appreciate it if you started locking your doors if you’re going to get up to any of that business again. I have managed to avoid walking in on my dads shagging my whole life and I don’t wish to start now.’</p>
<p>Harry lets out a bark of shocked laughter. ‘<em>Teddy</em>,’ he says, exasperated. ‘We’re not - your uncle and I weren’t-’</p>
<p>‘I don’t want to know,’ Teddy cuts him off with a disgusted look. ‘Also,’ he adds, frowning at each of them in turn, ‘one of you <em>has</em> to pick me as your best man. I don’t care how close you are to Uncle Ron or Professor Longbottom or if Aunt Pansy threatens to skin you with a knife. I call dibs.’</p>
<p>‘Of course,’ Draco laughs, a little watery, and extends his arms. ‘There’s no one else I would pick, love.’</p>
<p>Teddy hugs him tightly, whispering an <em>I love you</em> into Draco’s shoulder, and apparently they’re all a bunch of sops, because Teddy’s crying now too.</p>
<p>Harry sits there and thinks <em>best man</em> and <em>of course</em>, and he’s never wanted anything more than he wants this forever, this beautiful quiet tea-in-the-morning, sunshine-through-drawn-curtains forever, and he is so full of light and love that he might burn into cinders and fly up through the chimney.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Blaise owls ahead to say he’s going to drop by in the afternoon to interview Draco and collect memories for the pensive. When the Floo flares with green fire, Draco rises from his comfortable seat by the fire to greet his friend. He ends up nearly being bowled over as Blaise all but attacks him with a crushing hug.</p>
<p>‘Oh,’ says Draco, looking confused at the uncharacteristically emotional display.</p>
<p>‘I am so fucking happy you’re not dead,’ Blaise says, each word thrown out like a punch. He releases Draco and takes a step back, shaking his head. ‘Circe’s fucking tits, Draco. Why is your life <em>so</em> terrible?’</p>
<p>‘It’s not so terrible,’ Draco replies, and his eyes drift to meet Harry’s.</p>
<p>‘Don’t be disgusting,’ Blaise says, rolling his eyes. ‘And congratulations, I guess. Well then. Let’s get this business over with.’ He produces a small, glass vial from within his robes, pulls out the stopper, and holds it out expectantly.</p>
<p>Draco sighs heavily and tucks his chin in a curt nod. He lifts his wand to his temple, withdrawing the silvery thread of memory with a wince. The memory slips into vial soundlessly. Blaise tilts his head in silent thanks, and tucks the vial away into his robes. Draco looks a little winded, even if it was a minor spell, but it’s been a long day and he’s been out of the hospital for less than twenty-four hours.</p>
<p>Harry pushes down a tide of bitter irritation at Blaise (he’s just doing his job, after all) and helps Draco back into the armchair. He hands Draco his array of potions.</p>
<p>Blaise watches his friend take each tiny bottle with a tight, anxious expression, which is <em>weird, </em>because Blaise doesn’t have emotions, he just sweeps around looking handsome and being better than everyone else. He pulls off his outer robes, folding them over the back of an armchair, unbuttons his waistcoat, and drops into the chair with the same unnerving grace that every member of the Slytherin club seems to exude. <em>Maybe they all went to the same wizarding finishing school or something. </em></p>
<p>Harry perches on the side of Draco’s chair, feeling too unsettled to sit on the couch. This is going to be a difficult interview - and not just for Draco. </p>
<p>Blaise pulls out a notebook and something that looks like an old-fashioned Muggle pen (with a screw cap and metal nib) but is charmed to never run out of ink. He crosses his legs, flips open his notebook, and leans forwards slightly, marking the beginning of the interview.</p>
<p>‘What did Lucius want with you?’ Blaise asks.</p>
<p>Draco sighs and leans his head on his fingertips, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair. ‘He wanted me to fix a modified Time-Turner for him. Or rather,’ he clarifies, ‘he wanted me to fix it, then modify it further. The Time-Turner he gave me was capable of turning back weeks. He wanted years. Decades, actually. I refused him at first - I only gave in after he threatened to turn his wand on my mother.’</p>
<p>‘You had no choice,’ Harry says firmly.</p>
<p>Draco looks unconvinced but says nothing to argue against Harry. He presses his teeth into his lower lip, taking a deep breath as though to steady himself. Harry reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing it in what he hopes is quiet reassurance. Draco flashes him a grateful smile, and Blaise rolls his eyes again.</p>
<p>‘I worked as slowly as possible,’ Draco continues. His smile is a wry twist of the lips. ‘My father is talented when it comes to manipulation and petty politics, but he is rather lacking in magical knowledge. I was able to sabotage myself plenty of times.’</p>
<p>Blaise blinks slowly and scribbles something in his notebook. ‘That was probably the best course of action,’ he says, his gaze dropping to the sprawling marks of his handwriting. He lifts his eyes to meet Draco’s. ‘But do you think that you could have done what he asked? Could you have modified the Time-Turner to turn back decades?’</p>
<p>‘Time is a fickle sort of magic,’ Harry intercedes. ‘It would have been extremely difficult.’</p>
<p>They both turn to stare at him.</p>
<p>Harry frowns. ‘Hey, I know about time magic,’ he says, feeling a little defensive. ‘I’ve done some research.’</p>
<p>‘You’ve submitted nothing to us on the topic,’ Blaise comments, his eyes narrowing slightly. </p>
<p>Harry lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘It was just some personal research,’ he says. ‘Nothing official.’ </p>
<p>(What had actually happened was that Harry found an exploded Time-Turner on a raid with Ron, and though Ron could find no trace of the magic that made the device work, Harry could feel the imprint of the explosion in the air around it. They handed it over to the Unspeakables right away, but it triggered a deep curiosity within Harry that filled his many sleepless nights with research.)</p>
<p>Blaise shakes his head. ‘Alright, fine, I won’t ask,’ he says. ‘Are you insinuating that Lucius et al couldn’t have constructed a time turner capable of going back the span of decades?’</p>
<p>Harry scrunches up his face as he searches for the best way to explain. He knows, from working on this case together, that Blaise’s expertise in time magic is limited at best - his education has largely been on the magic that comes from witches and wizards. If Harry succumbs to the temptation to slip into technical jargon, Blaise will be as hopelessly lost as he would be in the Forbidden Forest on a moonless night.</p>
<p>‘Not exactly,’ Harry says. He withdraws his hand from Draco’s grasp and leans forwards in his seat. ‘They could certainly make the time turner move back in time,’ he explains, ‘but it would be incredibly difficult to fit all the possibilities within that time into a normal Time-Turner. Like fitting an ocean in a thimble - you can dip the thimble in the ocean, but you’re only going to get the specific portion of the ocean that is sitting in that thimble.’</p>
<p>‘Potter, you’re being incoherent,’ says Blaise. </p>
<p>Harry sighs. It’s really hard to explain something this complex to someone who doesn’t have the context. ‘Time is both fixed and ever-changing. It works a bit like the water cycle,’ he offers, gesturing vaguely.</p>
<p>‘The what?’ </p>
<p>Blaise, from his nonplussed expression, clearly never had to endure the banality of having to colour in a poorly-photocopied flow chart of cartoon droplets falling from clouds into a cartoon ocean. </p>
<p>‘None of my metaphors are going to make sense to you, are they?’ Harry frowns. </p>
<p>Draco looks like he’s about to burst into laughter. While he has not personally experienced state-school approved curriculum, his brief sojourn in the Muggle world means he’s worked with plenty of unfortunate souls who can recite ‘<em>evaporation, condensation, precipitation</em>’ at the drop of a hat. </p>
<p>‘I’ll try something different.’ Harry gets up and pulls a set of cards from one of the drawers in the living room. ‘Let’s say each card is one hour. If I turn back the clock one hour, I get two cards. I can only arrange two possibilities with two cards.’</p>
<p>Harry pulls two cards at random from the deck and places them face-up on the coffee table. Both Blaise and Draco watch closely as Harry arranges the cards - two of spades on the top, ace of hearts on the bottom.</p>
<p>‘When a person makes a decision, they are laying out a pattern with the cards,’ Harry says, tapping his forefinger on the cards. ‘If you go back in time, you can change those cards around.’</p>
<p>He swaps the cards, so that the two of spades is on the bottom, and the ace of hearts sits on top.</p>
<p>‘The longer you go back,’ he explains, gesturing at the cards, ‘the more cards you have, and the more possibilities for patterns you have. But a normal Time-Turner can only handle so many possibilities. Less patterns. To travel through time, properly, you need all the cards <em>and </em>all the patterns. Otherwise it’s kind of like sitting on a bus and only being allowed to get off on a predetermined station.’</p>
<p>Blaise looks pained. ‘This is making my head hurt,’ he tells Harry.</p>
<p>‘Time magic,’ Harry says, shrugging. <em>I tried, and therefore no one should criticise me.</em></p>
<p>He dismisses the cards to their place on the shelf with a wave of his hand. Draco looks just as lost as Blaise, but he’s hiding a smile behind his hand as he shakes his head at Harry, as if to say, <em>you’re such an unbelievable nerd, Harry Potter. </em></p>
<p>‘Anyways - to answer your question,’ Harry says. ‘A Time-Turner that’s modified to turn back weeks is made with the capacity to hold all the probabilities of the time that has to pass through it. But it would be extremely difficult to modify that Time-Turner further to allow it to process all the probabilities of a decade. You would need to replace almost all of the components of the device - and alter almost all of the spells.’</p>
<p>Blaise glances at Draco quizzically for confirmation, and Draco nods in affirmation.</p>
<p>‘Should we keep the thing in storage or destroy it?’ Blaise asks, turning back to Harry.</p>
<p>‘Destroy it,’ Draco says firmly before Harry can open his mouth. A dark cloud flits over his face, drawing his eyes into shadow. ‘I was not the only person forced to work on that thing. It might not use any Dark magic, but a thing stained with that much pain and death is bound to grow cursed over time.’ </p>
<p>Blaise holds Draco’s gaze for a beat, then nods once. He marks something down in his notebook. ‘Right,’ he says, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. ‘Do you know whether Lucius was the one who facilitated the theft of the Time-Turner from the Department of Mysteries?’</p>
<p>‘It was someone working there, actually,’ Draco replies. ‘An apprentice. I don’t know the name.’</p>
<p>Blaise’s expression grows grim and he scribbles something down in the margins of his notebook. He scans it for a moment, a muscle ticking away in his jaw as he does. Harry feels a strange sense of deja vu. He’s been on that side of the interrogation so many times, and asked a similar set of questions with the same polite detachment. </p>
<p>Sometimes he feels like that part of him is a completely different person - a stranger standing on the opposite platform, waiting for a train to pick them up and hurtle them a hundred miles away. Other times (like now) it feels like he’ll never escape that wizard with curse-stains on his hands.</p>
<p>‘Do you think you can recall anything else he might have mentioned during the time of your kidnapping?’ Blaise is asking Draco. ‘Any other magic items his affiliates have in their possession or are trying to create?’</p>
<p>‘Honestly, his attention was absolutely focused on this Time-Turner,’ Draco sighs. ‘But maybe you’ll pick something up in the pensieve that I missed.’</p>
<p>Blaise seems to have asked all his questions. He twists the cap back onto his pen and tucks it into the breast pocket of his waistcoat. The crease between his eyebrows disappears, and his face empties of any expression, like a sheet pulled tight over a mattress. </p>
<p>Draco studies his friend’s face for a beat, and it seems like he’s spotted something there that is undetectable to Harry. </p>
<p>‘What’s wrong?’ Draco asks, wariness creeping into his tone.</p>
<p>Blaise closes his notebook and taps it against the flat of his palm. ‘Potter’s explanation checks out,’ he says. I’m going to have to confirm with other sources, but it appears that the Time-Turner you were working on was never going to be successful.’</p>
<p>‘And why is that a problem?’ Draco presses. </p>
<p>Harry’s stomach sinks as he realises what this will mean for them. ‘The Department of Mysteries cannot bring charges against Lucius,’ he says aloud. ‘All we can do is draft a report of our findings and hand it over to Wizengamot.’</p>
<p>Blaise nods gravely. ‘And therefore it will be out of my hands and back into the control of the incompetence of the DMLE.’</p>
<p>Draco smiles - if you could call such a bitter gesture a smile - and cocks an eyebrow. ‘I should have expected nothing less,’ he remarks lightly.</p>
<p>The fireplace lights up with a sudden flare of Floo-green, and Hermione steps through with a giant hamper of food, her hair twisted up in a loose bun, curls falling down around her face. </p>
<p>‘Right, I’ve got bad news,’ Hermione announces, shoving the hamper at Harry. ‘I dropped by the Burrow to pick up food from Molly and ran into Percy and - oh,’ she says, cutting herself off. Her eyes widen as she takes in the other visitor. ‘Blaise Zabini, right? Slytherin? Are you visiting Draco?’</p>
<p>Blaise rises from his seat and offers a wide, too-perfect smile. ‘Lovely to meet you again, Mrs Granger-Weasley.’ He nods at Draco. ‘I should be going,’ he says, tilting his head towards the fireplace.</p>
<p>Hermione’s keen eye sees the notebook, the nondescript clothing, and then the stack of papers on Harry’s kitchen table - Harry can see the cogs in Hermione’s brain turning as the pieces slot into place. </p>
<p>‘Unspeakable Zabini, stay,’ she instructs. There’s enough steel in her voice that Blaise sits back down, obedient as a herd dog. ‘You’ll probably want to hear this too.’</p>
<p>Harry puts the hamper down as Hermione paces up and down in front of the fireplace, chewing her lip anxiously. She stops, whirling around on her heel, and drags one hand through her hair. </p>
<p>‘Lucius is taking a plea,’ she says. ‘He’s taking house arrest in exchange for the names of everyone involved in the neo-Death Eater scheme. He won’t be going to Azkaban.’</p>
<p>Draco’s face, already so pale, turns nearly bone-white. He presses his clenched fist against his mouth, his eyes wandering towards the fire as his expression turns hunted. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ he says softly. ‘My father usually gets what he wants.’</p>
<p>Hermione looks thoughtful for a moment, then angry, and then her jaw hardens with determination. ‘Nobody’s bothered to charge Lucius with the kidnapping and attempted murder,’ she says. ‘So that’s not part of the plea deal. He can be charged with that and we can put him away - for good.’</p>
<p>‘Would the Wizengamot even care what happened to an ex-Death Eater?’ Draco says, his voice lead-heavy with resignation.</p>
<p>‘Oh, I’ll make them care,’ Hermione says, like it’s a threat, and it probably is, because she’s an absolute terror to behold once she channels all that rage and stubbornness into her work. </p>
<p>‘It will be extremely hard to bring those charges,’ Blaise warns her. ‘The Wizengamot cares more about the nature of spells cast than what happens at the receiving end - look at our laws, Mrs. Granger-Weasley. They do not prioritize what is easily fixed with magic.’</p>
<p>‘Then we should <em>change</em> the law,’ Hermione grits out. </p>
<p>‘That is not easily done,’ Blaise frowns.</p>
<p>Harry sees Hermione’s eye twitch, and realises that she’s about to launch into full Advocate mode against Blaise. </p>
<p>‘I’ll go pop the kettle on,’ Harry announces. He gives Draco a discrete signal to make a swift exit to the kitchen before things get really ugly.</p>
<p>They make it to the kitchen just as Hermione starts using her courtroom voice - ‘Blaise <em>Zabini</em>, I <em>ask </em>you, do you truly <em>believe</em> that witches and wizards are <em>bound</em> to the traditions of yesteryear-’ - and Harry thinks he should feel bad for Blaise, probably, but then Draco bursts into a fit of giggles, and then Harry’s laughing too, smothering his guffaws with his hand, so they stand in the kitchen, clutching each other and trying to be as quiet as possible. </p>
<p>Draco leans back against the kitchen counter. ‘Circe,’ he gasps, wiping a tear from his eye with his thumb. ‘Hermione can be so… so…’</p>
<p>From the living room, Blaise’s voice begins to rise in timbre and volume, clearly rising to the bait. </p>
<p>‘Yeah,’ Harry grins.</p>
<p>He comes to stand in front of Draco, bracing his hands against the counter so that he can lean forwards and kiss Draco on the cheek. Draco smiles, bringing his hand up to toy with the tassels of Harry’s hoodie, his gaze fastened on that small patch of skin beneath Harry’s neck, just above the curve of his collar. </p>
<p>‘She cares,’ Draco murmurs. ‘She cares so much.’ He glances up and gives his head a little shake, and the corner of his mouth twists downward. ‘I mean,’ he says, ‘of course she cares. I know she cares. She’s my friend. But-’</p>
<p>‘I know,’ Harry says quietly. ‘It’s different to witness the proof of her love.’</p>
<p>Draco nods. He ducks his head under Harry’s chin, his fingers curling between their bodies as Harry pulls him in close. He smells of soft mornings and Harry’s favourite coffee, this precious thing between them that is too new, too fragile. </p>
<p>‘We’ll fix this,’ Harry promises, half to himself, half to Draco. ‘We’ll make everything alright.’</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>What a long-ass chapter, oh my god. Between the length of this thing and work/life growing steadily more chaotic, I barely have enough time to sit down and write anything. Bear with me pls thank you ily.</p>
<p>I don’t know why I’ve decided that grown-up Harry’s response to emotional meltdowns is to make tea, but that’s what my friends used to do all the time when I was sitting in the living room having a stress-meltdown.<br/>I also don’t know a lot about how the wizarding court system works, or if they have barristers or solicitors, so I’m just making it up because it seems horrifying that the HP universe justice system is basically a tribunal instead of a court (but that checks out because JK is kind of… well you know.)</p>
<p>Also, in case it wasn’t obvious, the constellation on the wall is Draco.</p>
<p>PS. I read all your comments, they make me so very happy, I promise I’ll try to reply to them going forward.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. the trial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>‘Then he shall be counted as a war hero for his sacrifice,’ the witch states with firm authority, ‘as Severus Snape was.’<br/>‘I see,’ says Andromeda. ‘If this is the measure by which you judge others, then it seems my nephew must be martyred to be worthy of your consideration. Thank you, but I think I have enough martyrs in my family.’</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Vague mentions of violence, mentions of injuries and blood. You can skip the trial entirely and get to Weasley chaos at “According to Molly’s infinite wisdom…”</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Draco’s fingers flit over the fern leaf-shaped pin at his throat as he surveys his reflection gravely. It glows the same colour as his eyes - a silver starburst against the severe black of his formal robes. It was a gift from Andromeda, a going-away present given when Draco first left England. <em>To remind you that you always have a home with me</em>, she had told him.</p>
<p>‘I look like him,’ Draco says. He drops his hand and clenches it above his sternum. </p>
<p>Harry comes to stand beside him in front of the mirror. He slips his arms around Draco’s middle, managing not to wince at how desperately thin Draco still is, and presses a kiss into the bare patch of skin behind Draco’s ear. </p>
<p>‘You don’t,’ Harry murmurs. </p>
<p>Draco melts back into Harry intuitively, sliding their hands together. He lets out a short exhale, and some of the tension eases out of his shoulders - but not enough. He’s been up since dawn, staring unseeingly out the window, his fingers rubbing over the Mark absently. Harry knows the ugly thing still hurts him - that it <em>always </em>hurts him, that it serves as a horrible reminder of what he had been forced to do. </p>
<p>‘How will they look at me and not see<em> him</em>?’ Draco asks, the corner of his mouth twisting bitterly.</p>
<p>Harry studies Draco’s reflection carefully. He can see the faint trace of Lucius’s features there, hidden in the arch of his nose, the slight curve of his mouth, just as he can see Narcissa’s bone structure, and Andromeda’s elfin features. He supposes there are plenty of other inheritances woven into Draco’s genes, subtle reminders of his Malfoy heritage - fragments that other witches and wizards will see that will inevitably remind them of Lucius Malfoy. </p>
<p>But there, above Draco’s lip - a tiny scar from where Teddy accidentally flew his broom into Draco’s face ten years ago. </p>
<p>There was blood everywhere. Andromeda nearly had an aneurysm, and Teddy was beyond consolation, shouting about throwing his broom into a wood-chipper between hiccupping sobs, which was very sweet but entirely unnecessary, because Harry was already handing over his emergency bottle of Dittany. <em>Aren’t you glad I came prepared? </em>Harry teased, and Draco laughed, and then swore, because his lip was bunged up pretty bad, actually.</p>
<p>There are plenty of other marks on his body - on his hands, where his knife slipped when potion-making, burns on his palms and calluses, too, and a bunch of old, faded scars on his thighs from where Artemis decided to express her displeasure at being made to have a bath. And, of course, Buckbeak’s handiwork on his arm. And then there’s the tattoo he decided to get when he was absolutely plastered and Pansy was having <em>a fantastic idea, really, darling, you’ll love it</em> (it’s a sparrow and it sits at the very base of his spine, flying up from the waistband of his pants, and Draco <em>hates </em>it, actually, because he can’t even see the stupid thing). </p>
<p>But if you never knew the life behind those marks, you would also see the way he lives in his skin - the way he inclines his head, the way he smiles, bright and fresh like a January sunrise, the way his jokes are always biting but never hurtful, the way his gaze grows focused whenever he listens to someone, the way he always opens the door for little old ladies, the way he gets all soft and teary-eyed when he sees a kitten.</p>
<p>Harry knows the person Draco was. He knows the snot-nosed brat - <em>my father will hear about this</em> - who was constantly vying to get Harry in trouble. He knows the angry, dangerous boy from sixth year. And he knows the fear-wild creature from the War. </p>
<p>He knows the young man who penned the letter that he still keeps in his pocket, the man who stacked books in a Muggle shop and watched crap telly on Sundays and named his cat after the goddess of the hunt, because she couldn’t catch a mouse even if it climbed into her mouth. </p>
<p>He knows how people can transform and grow and shed the shackles that were forced upon them by poor upbringing, just like how Dudley isn’t even recognizable anymore because these days he laughs with his stomach and he has two foster children whom he loves deeply, and he sends Harry artisanal cheeses every fucking month with handwritten reviews in his atrocious spelling, and sometimes he even invites Harry to join the musicals he helps direct down at the LGBT centre even though they both know Harry can’t carry a tune to save his life.</p>
<p>Because people <em>change</em>, and Draco changed, and that’s the whole fucking reason Harry fell so hard in the first place, because when someone who cuts like a knife learns to be kitten-soft it hits hard like a freight train. </p>
<p>‘I see you, Draco Malfoy,’ Harry says. ‘And when Hermione’s done with them, they’ll see you too.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Narcissa takes the stand first, as the only person witness to the whole kidnapping. She sets one hand on the railing while the other clenches around an embroidered kerchief in her lap. In her silver-and-eggshell robes and with her hair pinned neatly back, she looks the perfect aristocrat.</p>
<p>She recounts Lucius breaking into her apartment, entering the building easily even though there were supposed to be wards keeping him out. She repeats the scuffle that followed - Draco drawing his wand, the swift duel, Draco disarming his father, Lucius grabbing Narcissa by the hair and threatening her life.</p>
<p>‘He placed the knife here,’ she says, setting the tip of her nail against the soft, vulnerable place at her throat. ‘I was not afraid to die. But my son would not listen.’</p>
<p>She speaks in a calm, steady tone, but her eyes flash with cold fury. The unspoken statement is there, hidden in her words as she narrates the long weeks of being trapped at the end of her husband’s wand. <em>None of you in this room could have borne it. None of you could have lasted so long.</em></p>
<p>She closes her hand over the railing in a white-knuckle grip as she describes the raid, the severing curse hitting her son, the horrible stain that lives in her house now from the blood that refused to wash out, the four days of agony as she waited to hear whether her son would live.</p>
<p>And then she is done, and Andromeda takes her place.</p>
<p>They are as alike as they are different. The family resemblance is an echo of a refrain, hidden in the razor’s edge of their beauty and the uncanny grace with which they move. Andromeda’s hair is all grey now, and she wears it short, cut to her ears. Her clothes mostly Muggle apart from the outer robe she wears draped over her shoulders in a vague attempt at formality. But it isn’t Andromeda’s similarity to Narcissa that makes everyone stare at her in stunned silence. It is her disconcerting resemblance to her other sister - the one whose shrieking laughter still haunts Harry’s dreams.</p>
<p>The oldest member of the Wizengamot leans down beyond his bench, lifting his spectacles from his face so that he can peer down at Andromeda. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Tonks,’ he greets politely. ‘Are you going to talk to us about your nephew’s character?’</p>
<p>Andromeda’s lips thin out into a hard line. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I am going to tell you about my cousin. You might not have heard of him,’ she says, casting her gaze over the other members of the Wizengamot. ‘His name was Regulus Black. He was one of the people who helped kill Voldemort.’</p>
<p>The elderly wizard nods appreciatively. ‘A war hero, then.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, not at all,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Regulus Black was a Death Eater, and it is how he is remembered to this day.’</p>
<p>‘I’m sorry,’ frowns another member of the Wizengamot - a witch with cranberry-shaped earrings. ‘I thought you said he helped kill Voldemort.’</p>
<p>‘He did,’ Andromeda states flatly. ‘As difficult as it may be for you to comprehend, my cousin was neither villain nor hero. He was just a boy who loved his family, trusted in them deeply. He never thought they would tell him lies, corrupt him, and twist him to their agenda. But they did. They planted rotten seeds in his heart and let them grow.’</p>
<p>Draco’s expression is stricken as he watches his aunt. Harry slips his hand into Draco’s and squeezes it tight.</p>
<p>‘When he finally saw how they had poisoned him,’ Andromeda continues, her voice ragged with old grief, ‘he had already devoted himself to a cause from which there is no escape. So, he did what he could. He stole a Horcrux from Voldemort, and it cost him his life.’</p>
<p>After the War, Harry went to Andromeda to tell her what had happened to Regulus. It hurt him to have to hurt her, but she deserved the truth - just as Regulus deserved someone other than Kreacher to mourn him. He deserved to be more than a name on a tapestry, more than a school picture of a solemn-faced boy posing with his broom in his Quidditch leathers. When he told her about the cave, the potion, the Inferi - she buried her head in her hands and wept.</p>
<p>‘Then he shall be counted as a war hero for his sacrifice,’ the witch states with firm authority, ‘as Severus Snape was.’</p>
<p>‘I see,’ says Andromeda. ‘If this is the measure by which you judge others, then it seems my nephew must be martyred to be worthy of your consideration. Thank you, but I think I have enough martyrs in my family.’ </p>
<p>Proudfoot winces and twists his face away from the witness stand. </p>
<p>Tonks was his partner. His <em>friend</em>. Harry remembers him at the funeral, ruddy-faced and red-eyed, standing at the edges of the gathered crowd with flowers bunched in his fist as he stared helplessly at Andromeda, holding Teddy in her arms. Harry remembers how Andromeda looked then, too, standing quietly beside her sobbing husband, full of so much rage and grief that it seemed like her slender bones had no space for it. </p>
<p>‘I do not want my nephew to be a war hero,’ Andromeda says, her voice edged with steel. ‘He is my family, and I want him alive. However, he shall not live for very long if you do not put that <em>creature</em>-’ she points at Lucius ‘-somewhere where he can no longer hurt anyone.’</p>
<p>And she stands up, nods once at Hermione, and walks briskly out of the courtroom. The door slams behind her with considerable force. </p>
<p>‘I think,’ a member of the Wizengamot says weakly, ‘that we should break for recess.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Harry’s never seen Hermione work a room like this before - showing rather than telling, leaving no room to question the narrative. It’s a cold, detached thing, to lay your friend’s suffering out like this for everyone to see, but it <em>is </em>frighteningly effective.</p>
<p>She interviews one of the Belgian forensic wizards responsible for doing a post-incident sweep of Narcissa’s flat. His report was never submitted to the Wizengamot, so Hermione takes great care in making him inform everyone of his findings.</p>
<p>‘Three litres of blood,’ he responds, when Hermione asks him how much blood he found in the panic room. He looks mildly nauseous, then, and adds, ‘There was more in the bathroom. Six litres, total.’</p>
<p>‘And the spells from Lucius’s wand?’ Hermione asks. ‘Could you please tell us what they were?’</p>
<p>The forensic wizard takes a deep breath, then reels them off as quickly as he can. Even then, it takes him several minutes to go through them all. The Wizengamot requires another recess as a member of the audience is violently sick over the side of the gallery.</p>
<p>Harry helps Draco outside, sitting him down on a bench. He can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like - to have your suffering picked apart and displayed like an artefact in a museum. He pulls a thin chocolate bar out of the pocket of his robes and breaks off a small piece, offering it to Draco. It’s a meagre measure of comfort, but it is what he can do here, with all these eyes on them and all those reporters with their cameras and their quills.</p>
<p>‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asks, low enough that no one else can hear him.</p>
<p>Draco flashes a faint smile at Harry and takes the chocolate. ‘Not here,’ he says. ‘Maybe later.’</p>
<p>Harry accepts this with a nod. ‘I wish I could make this all go away,’ he sighs. ‘Or at least make it better somehow.’</p>
<p>Draco pointedly places the piece of chocolate in his mouth and elbows Harry gently in the ribs. ‘We’ve talked about the saviour complex, dear,’ he says. He is silent for a moment, his gaze dropping to the polished floor beneath his shoes, and then he looks up into Harry’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he says.</p>
<p>‘For the chocolate?’ Harry asks confusedly.</p>
<p>‘For giving me something to hold onto, in- when I was in the panic room,’ Draco replies. His smile is bittersweet, but his hand is warm in Harry’s grasp, and it does not tremble even once. ‘I think I understand what you were trying to tell me, after the Diagon Incident. Everything he did, through it all, all of it - I held on for you.’</p>
<p>Harry feels his eyes prickle with tears he can’t afford to shed. He pulls Draco’s hand into his lap and covers it with his other hand. ‘Hold on to me,’ he says, ‘and I’ll hold on to you.’ </p>
<p>‘You romantic buffoon,’ Draco says, sweet and quiet, but he doesn’t shake Harry’s hand off.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Hermione’s last witness is none other than Healer Thompson.</p>
<p>Draco’s grip is vice-like around Harry’s hand as the Healer pulls out her records and reads out Draco’s medical report, and then describes the emergency procedures she had to take during the long, gruelling hours of saving Draco’s life.</p>
<p>The severing curse, apparently, was the least of the injuries. Harry knows this already - the Healers told him as much, back in the hospital before Draco woke - but it burns in his throat and sits sour in his mouth to hear it. It is a specific anguish, to hear the atrocities committed to someone you love, and yet to be helpless to save them from it - for time separates you from any action you might have taken to spare them pain. He feels helpless, angry, frightened.</p>
<p>‘These curses were designed to hurt,’ Healer Thompson says, her face grim. ‘They can keep a person alive while inflicting the worst kind of torture upon them. I have not seen these sorts of injuries since the War, and I have certainly never seen them inflicted by someone on their own son. In my professional opinion, that requires a certain level of barbarity that I have rarely witnessed in my long years of working on this ward.’</p>
<p>One of the members of the Wizengamot clears his throat, leaning forwards in his seat.</p>
<p>‘You were part of the volunteer Healer effort during the War,’ he says - <em>a statement, not a question. </em>His voice has an unpleasant, reedy tone to it that sets Harry’s teeth on edge. ‘Did you not treat Mr. Malfoy’s victims?’</p>
<p>Healer Thompson shuts her records and sets them on her lap. She pulls off her glasses, staring steadily up at the wizard. ‘I did.’</p>
<p>Draco looks up sharply, all the colour draining from his face. </p>
<p>The member of Wizengamot smiles in what he probably thinks is a pleasant manner. ‘How interesting,’ he remarks. ‘Wouldn’t you say Mr. Malfoy demonstrated the same level of barbarity on those victims?’</p>
<p>Draco lets out a soft exhale, his elbows drawing closer to his sides as though bracing for a blow.</p>
<p>Healer Thompson arches her eyebrows. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I would not say that.’</p>
<p>Silence falls suddenly upon the room, its weight nearly tangible. </p>
<p>‘In fact,’ continues Thompson, ‘when I treated those victims, I discovered that they had already been given preliminary treatment. Potions. Countercurses. Apparently,’ she says, the corner of her mouth tugging upwards, ‘Mr. Malfoy was trying to run a volunteer Healer effort on the inside, despite his appalling lack of training. He did a worse job at patching those people up than he did hurting them. I think we are all lucky he did not decide to pursue a career at St. Mungos.’</p>
<p>The wizard flushes an angry vermillion. ‘This is no joking matter,’ he huffs.</p>
<p>Thompson smiles with blatant animosity. ‘Oh, I’m not joking,’ she says lightly. ‘Though apparently you are.’</p>
<p>‘I beg your pardon?’ utters the member of the Wizengamot, recoiling in shock.</p>
<p>Healer Thompson folds her arms over her chest. ‘I have patients who urgently need my time,’ she says, that same, frightening smile still fixed on her face, ‘and yet I am here, answering questions about what Mr. Malfoy did during the War, when you have already adjudicated those crimes.’ She gives a dismissive flick of her wrist. ‘I am here to speak about the crimes committed <em>against</em> Mr. Malfoy.’ </p>
<p>Another member of the Wizengamot rises out of his seat, slamming his hand down on the railing. ‘We cannot consider justice a crime,’ he thunders. ‘Draco Malfoy deserves what was done to him.’</p>
<p>Healer Thompson’s eyebrows climb her face. ‘I see,’ she says, nodding slowly. ‘So you believe a twice-convicted Death Eater is a good enforcer of justice.’</p>
<p>A bulb goes off from the stalls as a reporter snaps the scene. The room is silent but for the swift scribbling of quills against parchment. </p>
<p>The wizard who spoke out makes a choked noise and sits back down, his face ashen. </p>
<p>From her seat beside the bench, Hermione sniffs and brushes an invisible speck of dust off her pristine robes. Sometimes her mastery of the courtroom frightens Harry - she plays people like Ron plays chess, only with greater ruthlessness.   </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>They sentence Lucius to life in Azkaban. </p>
<p>As they come to shackle his wrists and take him away, Lucius looks up into the stalls and meets Harry’s eye. A leisurely smile sprawls over his face. </p>
<p>Harry watches him go, an awful feeling slithering about in his gut. He hears Draco’s voice echo in his ears, sad and resigned.</p>
<p><em>Lucius always gets what he wants, regardless of what he has to do to achieve it</em>.</p>
<p>Draco’s hand closes over his, and his weight presses into Harry’s side. ‘It’s over,’ he whispers. ‘It’s finally over.’</p>
<p>Harry prays that this time, it truly is.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>According to Molly’s infinite wisdom, the best way to ease the aftermath of the trial is by force-feeding everyone until they’re too full to think about bad things. She invites every last member of her family - spouses and children - and, in a fit of pure genius or blind insanity, Blaise and Pansy. (Narcissa and Andromeda have tickets to see a musical, otherwise Molly would have invited them too.)</p>
<p>Blaise is a little cautious at first, responding politely to any questions aimed at him, but Pansy takes to it like a duck to water. She plonks herself down between Ron and George, and quickly discovers that George shares her terrible taste in liquor and is <em>delighted</em> at his idea of branching out the business and making magical liquor.</p>
<p>‘I’ve got some funds to invest,’ she tells him excitedly, swapping his wine with her flask of vodka. ‘Let’s draw something up.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t you fucking dare, you don’t have a license,’ shouts Percy from where he’s spelling their fifth bottle of wine open.</p>
<p>‘Language!’ barks Hermione. She gestures at their teenage children sitting at the table. </p>
<p>Rose pats her mother’s hand and says, rather dryly, ‘Mum, it’s okay, Hugo learned his first bad word when he was five from Dad.’</p>
<p>Hugo nods his solemn confirmation and hands Draco the potatoes. </p>
<p>‘Your family is insane,’ Draco says, grinning at Harry. He tilts the bowl of roast potatoes towards Harry’s overladen plate. ‘Do you want some of these, by the way?’</p>
<p>‘I do,’ Harry says sorrowfully. ‘But I’ve already got honey parsnips and carrots. I can’t finish both.’</p>
<p>‘I’ll eat your honey parsnips and carrots then,’ Draco says, leaning over to spoon the potatoes into Harry’s plate.</p>
<p>‘I love you so much,’ confesses Harry, and kisses Draco on the cheek.</p>
<p>There is a loud clatter as Arthur drops his fork into his wine glass. </p>
<p>There is a brief, shocked silence, until Rose yells, ‘<em>Finally!</em>’</p>
<p>Pansy and Ron both start shouting at the same time, outraged that nobody told them about this, while Hermione looks like she’s about to burst into happy tears. Bill hurries over to collect a significant sum of money from Percy. Fleur announces that she’ll get the good champagne and disappears with a pop, reappearing afterwards clutching two extremely expensive bottles that even Blaise seems to approve of. Arthur seems intent on coming around the overcrowded table to shake Draco’s hand - <em>congratulations, dear boy, welcome to the family - </em>which sets Molly off. She slams the carving knife onto the table, hilt-first, and bellows, ‘NO WINTER WEDDINGS!’ </p>
<p>From across the table, George winks at Harry and flashes him a thumbs-up. ‘You heard her, Harry,’ he grins. ‘No winter weddings.’</p>
<p>‘Will somebody please pass the salt,’ Teddy says. </p>
<p>‘I think winter weddings are very romantic,’ Victoire offers, passing Teddy the saltshaker with a flick of her wand. </p>
<p>Draco leans into Harry’s side, his forehead wrinkling with worry. ‘Should we perhaps inform them that we don’t actually have wedding plans?’ he asks in a lowered voice. ‘I truly don’t want to disappoint them - it’s just that I haven’t even picked out a ring-’</p>
<p>‘A ring?’ Harry utters, his heart fluttering in his chest, but before he can say anything else, Ginny tackles him off his chair and onto the ground, the force of it sending his glasses flying off his face and skittering into the kitchen.</p>
<p>She grabs him by the cheeks and plants a smacking, wet kiss on his forehead. ‘About bloody time, you miserable cunt!’ she yells gleefully. ‘I thought you were going to die of stupid gay pining, you stupid, stupid <em>asshole</em>.’</p>
<p>It takes a while for things to calm down enough for them to get back to dinner. Neville hauls Ginny off Harry - <em>let the poor man eat his dinner </em>- and Molly makes Draco swear on his life that they will not have a winter wedding, or she’ll never knit him a Christmas sweater again. Fleur pours out champagne for everyone and they have a civilised little toast about it, and Hugo quietly informs everyone that he’d like to be the ring boy, please, if everyone’s alright with that, and Draco looks like he might cry a little.</p>
<p>Charlie shows up by the time half the pie is gone, looking weather-beaten and travel weary. He drops his suitcase by the umbrella stand and comes over to kiss his mother on the cheek.</p>
<p>‘Alright, what’s this then?’ he asks, nodding his head towards the open bottle of champagne. ‘What’ve I missed?’</p>
<p>‘Harry’s finally shagging Malfoy,’ Ron says gleefully, ignoring Hermione’s indignant <em>Ronald! </em>‘We’re celebrating.’</p>
<p>‘Aw, congrats, Harry,’ Charlie grins. He wanders around the table and slaps Draco on the shoulder amicably. ‘You mess this up, Malfoy,’ he says, a dangerous glint in his eye, ‘and I’ll feed you to Norberta.’</p>
<p>Draco nods. ‘Duly noted.’</p>
<p>‘Good lad,’ Charlie chuckles. </p>
<p>He peels his jacket off his shoulders and throws it over the only available seat left - which, incidentally, is next to Blaise. The Unspeakable rises smoothly from his seat, striding into the kitchen only to return a moment later with a plate of food for Charlie. </p>
<p>‘I thought perhaps you might be hungry,’ Blaise says, sitting back down. ‘International portkeys can be a bit draining.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, that’s very kind of you,’ Charlie says, his eyes flashing up to Blaise’s face. He raises his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before.’</p>
<p>The Unspeakable blinks. ‘Blaise Zabini,’ he says. </p>
<p>Charlie’s grin melts into something that Harry recognizes as his <em>I’m going to absolutely ruin you</em> expression. ‘Very nice to meet you, Blaise.’</p>
<p>Ron makes a gagging noise into his wine. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Dessert plates get taken away and piled in the sink, and Arthur brings out his good whiskey. Draco excuses himself to go outside for a cigarette, and after a moment, Harry extracts himself from the dining room to follow him out. He loves the Weasleys to death, but they drink nearly as much as Pansy does, and Harry’s been very good at limiting his alcohol consumption these past few years. He has no intention of changing that tonight.</p>
<p>He finds Draco standing at the edge of the property, looking out into the night. The end of his cigarette flares orange - a dragon’s eye winking in the dark. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and his hair has begun to curl at the nape of his neck. He looks perfect like this, his neat clothes in slight disarray, like a well-organised house full of mismatched decorations and over-loved furniture and coffee stains on the table. He smiles at Harry as he approaches, slow and sweet, and Harry wonders if it’s always been like this - if they’ve always behaved like lovers even when neither of them had the courage to see it. </p>
<p>They wander along the border between solid ground and murky water for a while, just beyond the sweep of light spilling from the Burrow, shoes sinking into the damp soil. Music warbles from an open window. A cool breeze whispers through the rushes, kissing at Harry’s temples. </p>
<p>‘You know,’ he says, breaking the easy silence between them, ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about our past.’</p>
<p>Draco hums thoughtfully. ‘Hogwarts or post-Hogwarts?’</p>
<p>‘Bathroom duel onwards,’ Harry replies.</p>
<p>‘A botched Unforgivable and a disarming spell does not a duel make, Harry,’ Draco says mildly.</p>
<p>Harry rolls his eyes and suppresses the urge to shove his boyfriend into the muddy water. ‘May I continue?’ he huffs. ‘Please?’</p>
<p>Draco laughs softly, tipping his head back towards the multitude of stars spread out above them. His neck is very long and very pale, and Harry can count the tiny beauty marks that dot between his clavicle and his jawline. ‘My apologies,’ he says, sounding completely unrepentant. </p>
<p>Harry loves him and hates him in equal measure. Nobody should be so unbearably annoying and charming at the same time. He sighs and gathers himself. </p>
<p>‘Right,’ he says, with conviction. ‘When I was going through all my issues, with the alcoholism, the reckless self-endangerment, you were there for me. Unequivocally. But I wasn’t there for you, not properly, even though you were going through so many of your own hardships.’</p>
<p>Draco halts in his steps, and Harry stops alongside him. Harry scrubs his hand through his hair, taking a deep breath as he draws together the right words.  </p>
<p>‘I needed to- I want to apologise for that,’ he says. ‘For not being there. For not being able to take care of you when you needed it.’</p>
<p>The clouds roll off the moon and silver light spills down over them, kissing the tips of Draco’s lashes as he looks at Harry - looks <em>into </em>him, deep into the darkest parts of him. </p>
<p>‘But- but I want that to be different from now on,’ Harry insists. ‘I’d look after you forever if you’d let me. Make you as happy as you deserve to be. Is that- would that be alright?’ he asks. He leans his weight onto the backs of his heels and clasps his hands behind his head, nervous enough to run a few laps around the property. ‘I know I’m a bit rubbish at it.’</p>
<p>Draco’s lips lift into a strange, sad little smile. Harry thinks he’s beginning to understand the meaning of that smile, and the unfathomable depths of the place it rises from. </p>
<p>‘Someday, Harry,’ Draco says, ‘I will sit you down and tell you my side of the story, and you’ll see how much you’ve done for me.’</p>
<p>‘I want to do more,’ Harry replies. ‘What can I do? What do you want?’</p>
<p>Draco’s smile slips off his face, but he steps towards Harry, and in his face, Harry can see all his love, as vast and inconceivable as the number of stars that glitter in the sky. ‘I want forever,’ he whispers.</p>
<p>Harry knows he should say something, but all he can do is listen to the wild pounding of his heart and stare at Draco. One month ago, he had nothing but old desires and abandoned <em>maybes</em>. One month ago, all he had were memories and an aching, a longing. But here, in the dark, he can see their past and their future stretching out to either side, endless and wonderful - and it is almost <em>too much</em>. </p>
<p>‘I want you,’ says Draco. ‘Today, tomorrow. Always.’</p>
<p>Lightning cracks across the clouds, and the skies descend upon them in sheets of icy water. For a moment they stand looking at one another, as the rain flattens Draco’s hair against his skull, and the ground grows soft and muddy from the pummelling of heavy raindrops, and then Draco reaches out for Harry’s hand and they run back towards the house, laughing breathlessly as Molly throws open the door and yells at them to come inside and get dry.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>You know how some chapters are harder to write than pulling teeth? Yeah. That. <br/>This fic is a cathartic piece of writing where I look at cannon, and go, ‘nah, screw that’. This is especially true for Draco’s actions during the war. <br/>Up next: things are very cute until they are very, very bad.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. your life was my life’s best part</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He thinks about how love can undo even the greatest of curses, and he looks at Draco and feels a tidal wave of emotion. Their life has been a long string of tragedies - loss and rot and ruin - and yet here they are, standing on the pathway to everything-forever.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: very mild inappropriate sexual comments (think thirst tweets); a very public arrest of one of the main characters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things are a little different after the trial - or rather, after the trial is published in all the papers. </p><p>People stop Draco in the street to fawn over him, press letters and gifts into his hands, tears streaming down their faces - <em>dear boy, we were so wrong, we never knew, we were wrong all along, how brave you are. </em>The nurses blush and giggle each time Harry accompanies Draco to his check-ups. The papers print tear-jerking fluff pieces about the tortured boy forced into servitude under a monster - a very Blackbeard, Beauty-and-the-Beast tale that could not be further from the truth.</p><p>(The truth is an ugly, unbearable thing that’s taken both Harry and Draco nearly two decades to sort out. The truth is Draco’s nightmares and the sentence carved into the back of Harry’s hand, and the fact that people still say the word ‘pure blood’ as though there is anything about blood that indicates impurity.)</p><p>They should probably be thankful for the turning tide. Draco is welcome in establishments that once turned him away coldly. He receives invitations to dinners and galas, requests for exclusive interviews, offers of sponsorship for a new broom oil or hair product - and even professions of love.</p><p>Harry knows he should be thankful, but instead he feels nauseous about the whole thing. When he confesses this to Draco, burning with guilt and shame, Draco just nods solemnly.</p><p>‘You suffered a lifetime of hero worship,’ he says. ‘It ruined your childhood. I can understand why watching the same thing happen to me would make you uncomfortable. To be honest,’ he adds, smiling crookedly, ‘it makes me extremely uncomfortable too. Pedestals are dangerous things to fall from.’</p><p>Harry knows a lot about falling from pedestals. </p><p>-</p><p>It isn’t all bad, of course.</p><p>Other letters come in the post: letters from parents who lost their children to Riddle’s oil-slick charm, his toxic ideologies; letters from witches and wizards who managed to escape the taloned grasp of their pureblood families; letters from children who are still captured in gilded cages; letters from famous, powerful people who envy Draco for his ability to escape the lead-heavy weight of his familial duties. </p><p>Draco writes to each of them in reply (Draco was always good at writing letters, after all). He sits up into the late hours of the night, at the desk in Harry’s study, his brow wrinkled in concentration as he peers down through his glasses, his quill scratching away at parchment until Harry coaxes him to bed. </p><p>‘You’re better at fame than I was,’ Harry tells him.</p><p>‘That’s because I’m not a hormonal teenager with an anger management problem,’ Draco replies with all of his usual snark and none of his bite. ‘And I’ve learned quite a deal of patience over the years, putting up with you.’</p><p>Harry catches him by the waist and presses open-mouthed kisses against Draco’s neck. ‘What have I done to deserve such cruel words from my beloved?’ he sighs in mock despair. ‘All I do shower him in love and admiration.’</p><p>‘Don’t be dramatic, Potter,’ huffs Draco, but his cheeks are flushed with pleasure.</p><p>-</p><p>Draco does have a limit for what he’s willing to take.</p><p>They’re out with Luna at Daphne at Fortescue’s, when a gaggle of witches stop at their booth on their way out. They’re so young, Harry is certain he’s seen their faces in the Hogwarts graduation ceremony last year. They press up against the table, giggling, pushing copies of last month’s Witch Weekly into Draco’s hands and asking him for his autograph. Draco’s smile is pinched as he complies, but he’s perfectly polite.</p><p>One of the girls whispers something into her friend’s ear, laughs, and then winks at Draco as she hands him her copy of <em>Witch Weekly </em>to sign. ‘You can rail me through a wall any time, Daddy,’ she grins. ‘I’m your biggest fan.’</p><p>Draco’s smile falls from his face as he pales visibly. The glossy magazine drops out of his hands and into his lap with a soft <em>plop</em>.</p><p>‘Right,’ says Harry brusquely. ‘That’s enough.’ He pulls his wand from its holster and slams a privacy spell down between them so quickly it nearly takes the girl’s nose off.</p><p>The witches protest, but their voices are muffled by the magical barrier now planted between them and the object of their obsession. Eventually, they give up and leave, magazines clutched in their hands like well-earned prizes.</p><p>Harry leans over to look at Draco, scanning his face worriedly.</p><p><em>I’m fine</em>, Draco mouths, and rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. He places his palm on Harry’s chest, pushing him gently (but very firmly) back into his seat. </p><p>‘I’m fine, Harry,’ he says out loud. ‘Besides, you look far more handsome when you aren’t emulating a mother hen.’</p><p>Harry makes a small, pained sound at the back of his throat. ‘You can’t flirt your way out of everything, Draco,’ he grumbles.</p><p>Draco drops his hand onto Harry’s forearm and squeezes it. ‘But I’m so good at it.’  </p><p>‘They were rather rude, weren’t they?’ Luna pipes up. She takes a spoonful of Harry’s blood orange sorbet and dumps it into her butter-popcorn parfait. ‘I wonder what inspired them to behave that way. It’s very odd.’</p><p>Draco huffs a sigh, picks the <em>Witch Weekly</em> off his lap, flips it open to a page, and turns it over for the rest of them to view.</p><p>‘<em>Oh</em>,’ says Daphne, her eyebrows arching. </p><p>They all stare at it for a while in stunned silence.</p><p>‘Are those <em>puffed sleeves</em>?’ Harry utters at last, his brain finally stuttering back to life. </p><p>‘Yes,’ says Draco, despairingly. </p><p>‘Why does your hair look like that?’ Daphne asks. She squints at the drawing, as though it might change shape if she stares at it long enough. ‘Do they think you’re part Veela? <em>Are</em> you part Veela?’</p><p>‘Not to my recollection,’ Draco replies. ‘Funny,’ he adds with a frown. ‘I don’t recall having abs that defined.’</p><p>‘Is that a snake coiled around your thigh?’ Harry asks. He can feel a faint sizzling between his ears, like a steak pressed into a pan of butter.</p><p>‘There are three snakes in total,’ Luna tells him. ‘Oh. My mistake. There’s the fourth.’</p><p>Daphne squeezes her eyes shut and leans back against the plush backing of her seat. She presses her fingertips into her temples. ‘I feel violated.’</p><p>Draco nods and makes a soft, humming noise in his throat in distracted agreement. His fingertips twitch in an aborted movement, but as always, the scar is safely hidden under the long sleeves of his button-up. ‘The Mark is on the wrong side,’ he says. ‘I must admit I am rather surprised they decided to include that in… <em>this</em> sort of illustration.’ </p><p>‘I suppose there’s nothing quite like the thrill of being able to sexualise something taboo,’ Luna remarks thoughtfully, ‘morally illiterate as that might be.’</p><p>‘The Mark isn’t <em>sexy</em>,’ Harry says heatedly. ‘It’s not something edgy that should be celebrated - it’s a fucking blight on Draco’s life and it causes him actual pain every single day and I swear to Merlin’s fucking eyeballs if I see a single kid out there with a skull-and-snake tattoo I will hit Skeeter over the head with an anvil.’</p><p>Draco’s lips quirk upwards. ‘Let’s not resort to violence, Harry,’ he says, his voice light with amusement. ‘I do appreciate the sentiment, though.’</p><p>They agree to spend less time in Wizarding London after that.</p><p>-</p><p>To mark the start of summer holidays, Teddy decides that Rose and Hugo need to experience the Muggle-made wonder of Alton Towers. Harry isn’t entirely sure how Teddy manages to convince anyone that this is a good idea, but the end result has Ron waking up at the crack of dawn to shove them all into his minivan and drive them into the heart of the country.</p><p>It is sweltering hot and the sky is determinedly cloudless. Ron forces them all to line up so he can slather them in sunscreen while lecturing them on the dangers of melanoma. He blackmails Draco into agreeing to hydrate every two hours - <em>Mione’s going to be a bit miffed if you end up passed out in a bush from sunstroke, mate - </em>and shoves energy bars into Harry’s pockets because he forgets to eat sometimes when he’s overstimulated. </p><p>Harry has never felt so aggressively parented in his life. It’s fantastic.  </p><p>They take each ride together as a large group. Hugo is hitting that infamous Weasley growth spurt, which means he can go on all the rides, much to his father’s disapproval (even after Rose points out that <em>Hugo’s been playing Beater for two years, Dad, and at least they have seatbelts on this</em>). Harry hates the spinny rides so he sits them out, sharing ice cream with Rose on the benches. Draco, however, takes to it with childlike glee, his arms stuck in the air as Teddy spins their seat around and around and around with sadistic delight. At some point, Rose tricks Ron into getting on a ride featuring a very large, very unrealistic spider that makes him shriek so loudly it nearly deafens their whole troupe - which, in Harry’s opinion, is probably his penance for letting George-fucking-Weasley babysit the kids during their formative years. </p><p>Victoire meets them next to a rollercoaster that winds and weaves through the woods, wearing a Minnie Mouse headband and a mustard-yellow shirt that reads <em>Flamel Is My Homeboy </em>(she’s starting her alchemy apprenticeship next Spring)<em>. </em></p><p>‘I’ve got fast track tickets,’ she tells Teddy, who looks like she’s just made all his dreams come true. ‘We can go on everything twice.’</p><p>‘You can go on everything twice <em>after </em>lunch,’ interjects Ron, snatching the tickets out of his niece’s hand. ‘I promised your parents I’d feed and water you properly.’</p><p>Ron is a veteran at taking his children to fair rides, so he knows that too much motion on a full stomach leads to a very quickly emptied stomach, and apparently hasn’t packed enough wet wipes to deal with it, so they are all banned from the roller coasters for at least half an hour. Teddy and Victoire, who played Chaser against each other all through school, have an epic showdown shooting basketballs into wobbling hoops while an awestruck crowd watches on. </p><p>Harry wins Draco a large stuffed tiger at the ring toss, and the park attendant on duty rings the bell and yells out the results of his victory. In a show of competitiveness that seems better suited to the pointy-faced boy of years past, Draco wins Harry a toy dragon at the next booth and then insists that the amused attendant celebrate his victory just as vocally. </p><p>‘Are you always going to be this insufferable?’ Harry asks his boyfriend, as the teenage park attendant climbs up onto the barrier and starts ringing the bell with all the strength he can muster with his chopstick-thin arms.</p><p>‘Yes,’ Draco laughs, pressing a kiss against Harry’s cheek. ‘I refuse to be out-boyfriended by you, Harry. It’s a matter of honour. Dignity. <em>Pride.</em>’</p><p>‘You’re a sap,’ Harry says, and he loves Draco so much he might die. </p><p>The moment is broken - <em>very predictably </em>- by Harry’s godson, who promptly snatches the toy dragon out of his hands and starts very loudly voicing his complaints about the anatomical inaccuracy of the dragon. Apparently, there are <em>not enough toe beanses</em>, and it is a <em>bloody travesty </em>and a <em>tragedy for the ages, however will Teddy go on living in such a cruel, cruel universe?</em></p><p>‘This love for drama comes from your side of the family, you know,’ Harry informs Draco, while Victoire films Teddy’s meltdown on her smartphone, giggling helplessly. </p><p>Once Ron clears everyone to go back on the roller coasters, Hugo decides that, actually, he’s done with the rides, thank you very much, and would prefer to go see the botanical gardens. They agree to split up and meet by the gates at closing. Teddy and Victoire take charge of Rose, heading back into the park to use up their fast passes, while Ron takes Hugo off to the botanical garden, leaving Harry and Draco a few hours of peace. </p><p>They pick a spot on the grass in view of the Towers. Between the trees, the grey buildings gleam in the afternoon sun. They share bottles of sugary lemonade and Harry rejoices in the ability to lounge alongside his boyfriend without having people come up and disturb their peace (with the exception of a young woman and her girlfriend, who briefly enrol their help in taking an adorable picture of them both with the rides looming in the background). He’s so happy he feels like he’s spinning upwards into the blue sky, up, and up amongst the scattered clouds. He lies back into the grass and feels Draco’s weight next to him, his magic sprawling outwards, feels the sun on his face and feels himself, at long last, spinning in time with the world’s axis.</p><p>-</p><p>It makes sense, in the grand scheme of things, that the day that it all goes to shit is the happiest day of his life.</p><p>-</p><p>The only thing that Astoria’s wedding has in common with Ginny and Neville’s is the season it is held in.</p><p>While the Weasley-Longbottom wedding was pure, delightful chaos, the Greengrass-Liu wedding is a hazy, midsummer night’s dream.</p><p>The Greengrass estate hovers in an ocean of botanical wonder, the white pillars of its facade shining out over the hedges like the brilliant lights of a schooner waiting beyond the tide. Golden lights hover above the extensive gardens like flickering fireflies. Harry and Draco make their way down a long gravel path lined with tall hedges, following a long trail of wedding guests. The air has lost the balmy weight of midsummer, and the sky is clear of clouds.  </p><p>The Greengrasses, it seems, hearken to a tradition older than even the stilted customs of the self-proclaimed pure-bloods. The wreaths that hang at each entryway sing with a magic that is wild and delightful and <em>other</em>. Harry is reminded of the eerie singing of the merpeople in the cold depths of the Great Lake, the way the centaurs of the Forbidden Forest moved and spoke, the sudden, fiery rage of the Veela. He thinks about all the things that witches and wizards refuse to understand, of the myriad of magical creatures lost in the ‘taming’ of Northern America. </p><p>Astoria is a resplendent figure in crimson, a sliver of magnificent sunset next to her tall, quiet groom. She is so full of life and so different from the haunted, sickly girl of her youth. Harry can never quite get used to how different she is from Daphne - small-boned, dark-haired, with a face that belongs in angelic murals and dark, wide eyes. She welcomes each of her guests at the door with a hug and a kiss, handing them oranges and pressing flowers into their lapels.</p><p>That was how they met - the bride and groom. Through flowers.</p><p>Stephen Liu was buying a bouquet off the side of Central Park for his sick aunt, and Astoria was looking for a collection of white roses to decorate her brand-new apartment, and they both recognized their school pins. Stephen’s was fastened to the lapel of his suit, and Astoria wore hers at her throat. They had a moment of solidarity over a cup of coffee, Stephen’s lilies laid out on the park bench in a wrapping of old newspapers. Apparently, Stephen had been sent abroad to Ilvermony as an attempt by his family to learn how to do better business with the Westerners - a suitable task for a second son. Astoria, too, knew what it was like being second child, second fiddle, in the shadow of her brilliant, wonderful sister. And she knew what it was like to be lonely, isolated from things familiar and comforting - having spent three years of her youth chained to a sickbed.  </p><p>They were engaged by Christmas and sent wedding invitations in the Spring. </p><p><em> It is easy to fall in love in New York, in the Autumn</em>, Daphne would say, rolling her eyes, but Harry knows better. He can recognise the way Stephen looks at Astoria. It is the same species of creature that inhabits Harry’s heart. </p><p>Three is a blessed number everywhere, it seems. Three times, Astoria and Stephen bow before they drink clear liquor from tiny porcelain cups. Three times, the binding knot is tied around their clasped hands, as the spell takes and they are sealed together as husband and wife. Three times, Astoria presses kisses to Stephen’s knuckles, and three times, she wipes the tears from his face and whispers to him: <em>I love you, I love you, I love you</em>.</p><p>The party moves to a vast ballroom that has been decorated to resemble a midnight garden in full bloom. The walls are smothered in a dazzling tapestry of flowers. Each pillar and chandelier are threaded through with climbing vines. A heady perfume permeates the air, broken only by the cool night breeze rushing in through the open windows and balcony doors. The quartet in the corner of the room starts up, a modified Sonorous filling the room with music.</p><p>Harry and Draco take up a place by the entryway, close enough to their friends but far enough to let the families have the front row. The bride and groom make their way onto the floor for the first dance, and a hushed awe falls over the crowd. </p><p>Astoria and Stephen twirl across the polished floor as though they were made to dance together. As Stephen spins Astoria out, her dress shifts from its splendid red hue to pearlescent white, the skirt fanning out around her shins. She tips her head back, her lips parted in laughter, and her hair spills down from its careful updo, dark and long and curling, and she is so very full of life. </p><p>Harry thinks about how close Daphne’s little sister came to slipping into the dark, how close this burning light came to being extinguished. He thinks about how love, in all its forms, can undo even the greatest of curses.</p><p>He leans into the gentle hand pressed against the small of his back, humming happily as it slides over to his waist and pulls him close. Draco has gained most of the weight back, under Healer Thompson’s strict potion regimen. He is a solid, warm presence at Harry’s side, his magic a sanctuary amidst so many wand-users.  </p><p>The song draws to a close, and Astoria flings herself into her husband’s arms, too excited for formalities and curtsies. She drags him by the hand towards Daphne and Luna as the quartet picks up a cheerful tune.</p><p>Draco lifts Harry’s hand to his lips. It is the most chaste of motions - <em>just a brush of heat against skin</em> - but it sends sparks shuddering straight to Harry’s core all the same. Draco is beautiful tonight, dressed in a suit just a shade lighter than charcoal, his tie the same star-shimmer silver as his eyes. His hair frames his face, loose and feathery, softening all his sharp edges and drawing Harry’s eyes to the curve of his lips. He belongs in a song, or a fairy tale - something with curses and kisses and slumbering princesses. </p><p>Draco takes a step back towards the open floor of the ballroom, Harry’s hand still within his grasp. ‘Dance with me,’ he says. </p><p>A few couples are making their way onto the floor, falling into the first steps of what seems to be an incredibly difficult dance. Harry hasn’t even mastered the waltz, let alone whatever <em>this</em> is. He watches as a couple go spinning swiftly them, and is reminded of the rides at Alton Towers, and watching Teddy and Draco go round and round and round in contraptions of steel and rubber. </p><p>Harry shakes his head, grinning. ‘You know I’m rubbish at dancing.’</p><p>‘You’re not rubbish at dancing,’ Draco corrects, taking another step back. Their arms are outstretched now, linked by their intertwined hands, and it will only take one more step for Harry to be pulled forwards. ‘You’re bad at leading.’ </p><p>Harry shakes his head again, laughter bubbling at his lips. He can feel himself slipping into Draco’s gravitational pull - the weight shifting in his feet as he prepares to fall into orbit. Draco’s smile takes on a playful edge, and before Harry knows to react, he yanks Harry with enough force to send him careening forwards into Draco - but Draco catches him with a firm hand to his waist. </p><p>‘Which is why <em>I’ll</em> lead,’ Draco continues, almost <em>breezily</em>, as though he hadn’t pulled that clever manoeuvre and sent all the air out of Harry’s lungs.</p><p>And then he <em>pushes</em>, and, unthinkingly, Harry follows. </p><p>Harry doesn’t know this dance at all, but he knows Draco. He’s been following the lines of Draco’s body since they were flying through curtains of rain struggling to catch a tiny golden ball hurtling through the air. It is second nature to mirror his movements. </p><p>Draco dances like Harry fights. </p><p>He is quicksilver. He is the gasping white froth that rides the dark ocean waves as they roll into shore, and as certain as the currents that run deep beneath the surface. </p><p>The hand on Harry’s waist is an anchor - a firm presence that pushes and pulls and guides him through the swift rhythm of the song. Harry is aware of the trip of their feet over the floor, aware of the giddiness of the ceiling as it whirls above them, aware of each sweep of the music as it rises and rises - and yet, at the same time, he is elsewhere, flying through autumn-chilled air, far above the Quidditch stands, above everything and everyone, tilting his broom in preparation for the nosedive after the glittering wings of the Snitch. Draco lifts their clasped hands and turns him, spinning him out and then drawing him back in, never once falling out of beat. Together they perform a different type of magic, one where Harry <em>belongs</em> here in their harmony of movement and breath. </p><p>And suddenly it is done, and they are pressed together on the ballroom floor and there are people clapping, and the music is changing now, into something slow - <em>a waltz perhaps </em>- but all Harry can here is the thundering of his pulse in his ears. </p><p>Draco lifts his hand from Harry’s waist and presses it against his chest, fingers splayed out. ‘Harry,’ he whispers, his eyes widening. ‘Your heart - it’s <em>pounding</em>.’</p><p>Harry nods, the movements slow. He feels as though he is still in freefall, and so he clings desperately to Draco’s forearm. ‘I know,’ he says, as winded as though he were punched in the gut. ‘Draco, that was - that was -’</p><p>‘<em>I know,</em>’ Draco laughs, sounding just as breathless as Harry. He steps away, slightly, and tugs on Harry’s hand, still clasped tightly in his own. ‘Would you like to get some air?’</p><p>Harry nods, all out of words, swaying into Draco just enough that he has to catch him by the waist. They wander off the dance floor, through a pair of open doors onto a curved balcony. The party is just starting, so all the other balconies are quiet and empty - and it is just them and the night. </p><p>The perfume of the ballroom is less heady out here, sweeter, and lighter. The sky is ablaze with a splendid sweep of stars and the gardens glimmer below, fountains gurgling sweetly beneath the music as the quartet picks up a delightful waltz. </p><p>Harry knows this one. </p><p>It’s from a charming Muggle film he saw a million years ago when they were still Malfoy and Potter, their hands spaced politely apart in the dark, in front of the bright screen and amidst the sweeping score rising all around them like an unstoppable flood.</p><p>Even then, <em>even then</em>, Harry’s heart leaned towards Draco like a sunflower following the sun’s path through the sky. He knows that now.</p><p>‘This is from-’</p><p>‘-<em>Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amelie Poulain</em>,’ Draco finishes for him. He leans into Harry, his hand sliding gently from Harry’s waist to the small of his back. ‘I remember. We watched it at the Odeon. I was horribly in love with you, even then. I tried to convince myself I could wait it out, like a bad cold, if I kept my distance. But instead I only fell deeper in love with you.’</p><p>Harry thinks that maybe they’re still dancing, spinning out over the ballroom floor. He should say something - but he is too breathless to speak, too giddy to find the right words. Instead he leans forward and presses his lips to Draco’s. The garden in his chest is aflame with golden marigolds of happiness. </p><p>Draco withdraws slightly, and Harry mourns the loss of contact. ‘I remember what you said that last night in Ghent,’ he murmurs. </p><p>Harry never forgot those words, uttered in regret and longing - <em>I wanted to build a forever with you.</em></p><p>Draco presses something into Harry’s hand - something small and velvety. Harry’s heart is a frantic metronome in his throat, completely out of sync from the waltz as it rises to the climax of the song. He looks down and finds the box cupped in his palm, and Draco’s long fingers cradling his hand like something precious. </p><p>‘Merlin,’ Harry utters. His eyes feel too hot and too heavy for his skull. As he looks back up at Draco, his vision grows blurry. ‘<em>Christ.</em>’</p><p>Draco’s smile slips out of his face and his gaze is more intense than looking directly into the sun. ‘I want to build a forever with you too,’ he says. ‘If that’s something you still want.’</p><p>Harry thinks his knees might give out. He grabs Draco’s forearm in an effort to steady himself. ‘Fuck,’ he curses. ‘Draco, are you - are you really doing this?’</p><p>‘I want to make you as happy as you deserve to be,’ Draco whispers. He flicks the ring box open, revealing the band of white-gold within. ‘To give you everything you desire, to realise all your greatest aspirations. To defend you when you are attacked. To be your sanctuary, to hold you when you are weak. To go to bed with you, to wake up with you, to be with you for the rest of my life.’</p><p>It doesn’t make sense - they’ve only been properly together for just over a month. But, <em>god</em>, Harry wants it. He’s always wanted it. This desire planted its seeds in him that Christmas after their first kiss, and he has a superbloom of stars in his lungs to prove it. He is <em>incandescent </em>with it.</p><p>He laughs, his voice broken with tearful joy. ‘I -’</p><p>And then he feels it - the whine of distant wards putting a feeble fight as intruders cross into the property. He recognizes the sensation. It’s one he’s felt himself perhaps a hundred, thousand times when his Auror credentials bypass the wards. </p><p>He knows, deep in his gut, why the Aurors have come. </p><p><em>Tread carefully, Mr. Potter.</em> </p><p>He’s always known they would come. </p><p><em>The DMLE is a dangerous enemy to make</em>.</p><p>Harry snaps the ring box closed and presses it into Draco’s chest. He hates himself for the flash of pain that flickers across his beloved’s face, that hurt at being rejected so coldly.</p><p>‘The answer is yes, Draco,’ he says hurriedly - almost frantically. ‘The answer will always be yes. It’s always been yes.’</p><p>Draco shakes his head. ‘But then why?’ he demands.</p><p>There isn’t time to explain. He can feel them approaching now, their magic sour against the warm golden spread of the wedding guests. Harry unclips the wand holster from his thigh faster than lightning and tucks it into the inner pocket of Draco’s jacket. He slips a <em>Notice-Me-Not</em> over it with a brush of his fingers and a whisper of his bottomless magic. </p><p>‘Keep this for me,’ he mutters urgently. ‘Don’t let anyone else have it. Don’t let them know you have it.’</p><p>The double doors to the ballroom burst open with a loud bang. Several witches and wizards come storming through, dressed in leathers in boots, wands at the ready as though preparing for battle against an army. A few guests scream as they hurry out of the way. The music screeches to a halt, members of the quartet rising out of their seat, instruments held awkwardly in their hands as they watch the Aurors advance. </p><p>Draco turns towards Harry, his eyes widening in horrified realisation. ‘Harry, no,’ he says. </p><p>Harry clenches his jaw. He pulls out of Draco’s reach and steps back into the light, back into the chaos of the ballroom.</p><p>Draco hurries out after him and he grabs Harry by the forearm. ‘<em>No,</em>’ he pleads. ‘Harry, don’t.’</p><p>Harry shakes his head firmly. He can’t run. That would make things worse.</p><p>‘What in the world is going on?’ shouts Astoria’s voice from far away. </p><p>Harry can see Ron and Hermione on the other side of the ballroom, running, running towards him. Hermione’s dress flaps at her ankles as she crosses the vast expanse between them, faster than he’s ever seen her move in their entire lives. </p><p>He recognizes the man at the head of the flock - Smythe, the young Auror who came to Hogwarts the day this all started. He remembers tying the Auror’s shoelaces together, tripping him over as a joke. Despite the ugly sneer on the man’s face as he approaches, Harry can’t quite bring himself to regret it. </p><p>Auror Smythe comes to a complete stop in front of Harry. He lifts his wand and points it directly at Harry’s chest. Draco gasps in Harry’s ear at the blatant threat, but Harry’s spent enough years having curses flung at his head. He stares steadily at Smythe, keeping himself placed solidly in front of Draco just in case the young Auror gets any funny ideas. </p><p>‘Professor Harry James Potter,’ says Smythe, enunciating each syllable loudly enough for the entire ballroom to hear. ‘By order of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you are under arrest.’</p><p>‘No, no you don’t,’ Hermione yells, descending upon them like a storm of righteous fury. </p><p>Ron is hot at her heels, looming behind her at his full height. Even as a retired shop-owner, he is still terrifying enough for some of the younger Aurors in the group to take a few steps back.</p><p>‘On what grounds?’ Hermione demands, more incredulous than angry. ‘Do you even have a warrant for this?’</p><p>Smythe smiles widely and hands over a scroll. </p><p>Hermione’s eyes flick back and forth as she scans the document at an alarming pace. Her lips grow thinner and thinner, her expression pinched, which can only mean that everything is in order. </p><p>‘You have no jurisdiction,’ Ron frowns. </p><p>Smythe’s grin is sickeningly smug. ‘Oh, but we <em>do</em>,’ he says, indicating the scroll in Hermione’s hand. ‘See, your precious Mr. Potter has been practicing magic that isn’t within the confines of registered spells. And to make matters worse, he’s been injuring people. Destroying property - <em>government </em>property.’ He lifts his shoulder in an over-exaggerated display of nonchalance.  ‘Now, we can’t be too sad about him beating the shit out of a Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, but that’s three broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, and a lot of bruised organs. It’s a troubling pattern, sir. It’s got to go to trial.’</p><p>Draco’s hand is a vice on Harry’s arm. ‘These claims are outrageous,’ he states, his voice shaking with barely-contained anger. ‘Plenty of Aurors have done far worse in duels, and I don’t see you arresting them for it.’</p><p>‘The key difference, Mr. Malfoy,’ says Smythe, archly, ‘is that those Aurors used wand magic - proper wizarding magic. Mr. Potter used <em>creature </em>magic.’</p><p>Hermione lurches forward, her face a mask of steely fury and her fist clenched in a tight ball, but before she can take a swing, Ron grabs her by the arm quickly and hauls her back out of range. </p><p>Harry tries not to breathe a sigh of relief. It won’t do to have her knock an Auror out cold, no matter how deserving of it he might be. </p><p>Two Aurors step forward, reaching out to separate Harry from Draco’s grasp. Harry shakes his head at Draco silently as he tries to resist. <em>Don’t give them a reason. Don’t give them cause. You know how this works. </em>They’ve both seen the ugliness on that side of the curtain.</p><p>Draco’s expression is a wreck of grief and pain as the Aurors cast horrible, invasive searching spells on Harry’s body. He shouldn't have to see this, shouldn’t have to watch. Harry tries to breathe through it, tries to sink down and focus on the Anchors. Their magic <em>itches</em> on his skin even after they’ve cast the last charm.</p><p>There are more people around them now, drawn by the commotion. Astoria pushes her way to the front, dragging both Daphne and her newly-minted husband with her. She looks perfectly ready to commit multiple counts of homicide at her own wedding.</p><p>Smythe’s face is a twisted mask of displeasure. ‘Search the property,’ he orders.</p><p>‘Oh, <em>no</em>, you will not,’ Astoria says, deadly as black ice. She strides forward, her eyes burning with a sort of fury that would make lesser men quake in their boots. </p><p>Smythe is not very much of a man to begin with. He instantly blanches under the force of her gaze.</p><p>‘You might have a warrant for an arrest, Elmer Smythe,’ Astoria says, each word a barbed sting into the Auror’s side, ‘but I see no evidence of a warrant to search for the symbol of ownership of the Elder Wand. Because that is what you’re really looking for, isn’t it? Ownership of Harry’s wand means ownership of the Deathly Hallow’</p><p>A shocked hush falls over the crowd. <em>Would they really - would the Ministry really dare do such a thing?</em></p><p>Harry wants to laugh. There is no extent that the DMLE would not go to, if it meant acquiring a new weapon - especially one as powerful as the Elder Wand itself. </p><p>‘We must ask that you cooperate,’ Smythe attempts, his voice sounding somewhat wobblier than before.</p><p>Astoria looks on the verge of flinging curses, but her husband steps in quickly.</p><p>‘Auror Smythe, is it?’ he asks, as pleasant as a diplomat making their first introduction. ‘My family has come a very long way for this wedding. I don’t think they appreciate you making us lose face in this manner on such an important day. I really think it would be in your best interest to just leave. You really don't want to escalate this any further.’</p><p>Smythe laughs incredulously. ‘Who do you think you are,’ he scoffs, ‘talking to an Auror like that?’</p><p>Something changes subtly in Stephen’s pleasant, handsome face. Harry feels a chill chase down his spine at that glimpse of steel. </p><p>‘<em>Surely </em>you aren’t that oblivious,’ says Stephen. His smile spreads until his cheeks dimple. ‘Ah. I see. You are. Well then,’ he says, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Let me try and frame this in a way that your barbaric little colonizer mind will understand. You’ve already managed to piss off one of the most powerful British families, along with a truly impressive collection of war heroes - do you really want to make an enemy out of the Hong Kong Lius as well?’</p><p>Smythe still doesn’t seem to understand, but one of the witches behind him grabs him by the arm and shakes her head. She whispers in his ear what Harry already knows - what everyone even tangentially involved in Healing or Potions or has worked in any kind of magical laboratory knows.</p><p>While the more traditional members of the Liu family don’t subscribe to the description of <em>witch </em>or <em>wizard</em> the way magic-wielders of the West do, and while do not they care much for the rules of aristocracy and lineage that Wizarding Britain is so obsessed with, they still own the entire import industry for potions ingredients. One word from Stephen, and the Lius could put the economy of Wizarding Britain in a chokehold. </p><p>Smythe visibly pales. </p><p>‘Get the fuck out of my house,’ says Astoria.</p><p>Stephen bares his teeth in a viper’s smile. ‘Auror Smythe,’ he says, cordial as ever. ‘I suggest you comply with my wife’s request now.’</p><p>‘Very well,’ says the witch next to Smythe. ‘But we will be taking Mr. Potter with us.’</p><p>‘You can’t do this,’ says Hermione, the warrant still clutched in her hand, her knuckles bone-white. ‘<em>You can’t do this.’</em></p><p>They yank Harry unceremoniously forwards, forcing his arms behind him as they slap cuffs on him that climb up his body and pin his fingers tight, twist his hands behind his back and force him forwards, subservient. <em>Vulnerable.</em> Harry cannot move, cannot even take a single breath without the restraints digging into his ribs. It is ugly. Claustrophobic. </p><p>Draco stumbles backward as though about to drop into a dead faint. In a rush, Daphne steps forward and enfolds him in her arms protectively.</p><p>‘<em>Harry</em>,’ Draco calls, his voice pitched high and tight. ‘No, Harry.’</p><p>Harry feels ugly, cold panic slither down his throat, building frost in his stomach. He forces himself to remain calm, forces himself to meet his fiancé’s panicked eyes and smile calmly. </p><p>‘It’s okay,’ he lies. ‘It’s going to be okay.’ And then, with all the truth in his heart: ‘I love you. I always will. I always have.’</p><p>And then they take him away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Was this supposed to be a Looking For Draco fic? Ahahaha guess not?<br/>However terrible you think that racy drawing of Draco is, amp it up by a hundred. Now impose that on interviews of celebrities being forced to look at thirsty fanart.<br/>The theme park scene is a bit jumpy, ugh, I’m sorry. (Are Teddy and Victoire an item? Or is it just disaster bi solidarity? WHO KNOWS. Harry definitely doesn’t.)<br/>P.S. the title is from You by Keaton Henson</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. your pain is a tribute</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He made a promise to Harry, years ago in a dingy alleyway stinking of piss and cheap booze - and he does not break his promises.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It’s been kind of a year, huh guys? Please enjoy some escapism with me, stay hydrated, take your meds, call your loved ones and your found family, and remember to be extra kind to yourself. Love you all.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even after they release him from Azkaban and send him back to Malfoy Manor, Draco cannot bring himself to stomach food.  </p><p>His stomach is a painful knot that clenches and unclenches. His head swims every time he gets up too fast, and if he drinks water that isn’t room temperature, he ends up throwing it all up again.</p><p>‘You can’t give up,’ Daphne says, her voice hard with anger, but her eyes are sad. ‘Or you’ll never get better.’</p><p>When they were six, they used to play together in the Manor gardens, collecting flowers and peacock feathers to make bouquets for Astoria. Astoria was too small, too weak to be allowed outside, so Draco suggested they bring the outside to her. But that was before Lucius decided that flower-picking was unseemly for a Malfoy and forced Draco to take up potions and duelling instead. Any friendship that Draco might have formed with Daphne was extinguished quickly.</p><p>Maybe it is that <em>could-have-been</em> that brings her here now, to sit in this empty slaughterhouse with him and offer him undeserved help. </p><p>‘Why are you here?’ he asks.</p><p>Daphne’s face creases with frustration. ‘Because we’re friends, for <em>fuck’s </em>sake, Draco,’ she grits out.</p><p>‘Friends,’ he repeats. He looks at her, beautiful and bright - a girl made for the sun.</p><p>A girl made for a world he does not belong in.</p><p>‘If you end here, then all you will have accomplished in your lifetime are the things your father wanted you to,’ she says, full of fury (but not against him, <em>for </em>him, and it doesn’t make any sense, doesn’t she know what he’s done?). ‘And that’s not right, Draco. You have to prove that you <em>can</em> be more than this.’</p><p><em>Circe, he’s tired.</em> There is a hollowness that lives inside of him - a crevice formed by the force of his self-hatred, deepened by pain and exhaustion. It makes him feel cold even in the warmest hours of the day, even when his hands are hovering above the licking flames in the fireplace (close enough to singe his palms, but that’s what potions and salves are for, to heal the marks, hide the evidence). He wanders through this empty manor and feels that hollowness expand until it consumes every last bit of him. He wants to fall into the long shadows of this place and never re-emerge. </p><p>‘You deserve more than this,’ Daphne says. ‘You always have.’</p><p>‘My father and I are the same creature,’ Draco says aloud. ‘We deserve the same ending.’</p><p>His father is locked away in prison. A horrible, angry part of him wishes his father had died in the Battle of Hogwarts. But his father was never very good at fighting someone who could face him as his equal. He lives because he hid.</p><p>Draco lives because a boy with eyes like spellfire grabbed him by the wrist and mistakenly thought him worth saving. </p><p>-</p><p>He doesn’t really agree with Daphne. He doesn’t deserve more than this. He wants to end in the ashes of the Manor. He wants to let himself be swept away and locked in a cell and forgotten about.</p><p>But then Harry Potter yells at the Wizengamot in his defence and blows up a courtroom in a fit of accidental magic.</p><p>It’s funny, really. He thinks he can wean himself off this stupid little crush, but Potter is, well, <em>Potter</em>, with his <em>eyes</em> and his <em>hair</em> and his bloody fucking ability to be so <em>good </em>-</p><p>Draco takes his uninvited desire and places it deep within him, in a place he will not have to look. He keeps his head down and tries to be worthy of Potter’s outburst. </p><p>He does not know how to be good. He does not know how to be kind. No one has ever taught him how.</p><p>But he tries. </p><p>He pries open his heart and picks out all the pieces that have grown cobwebbed and neglected under his father’s rule. He writes letters, makes amends, takes all the gifts he has and pushes them towards making other people happy. He finds that he has rather a talent for it. He tilts towards it, a sunflower following the sun, and within him, something begins to bloom.</p><p>His mother cannot find him a Healer that will take him. She is furious for him, but Draco cannot help but feel relief at the anger. He does not want to be forgiven. He does not want to forget - does not want anyone else to forget. But he<em> does </em>want to earn a place in this delicate new world that is growing out of the rubble - this place where a boy with a love for flowers might find a small corner and grow.</p><p>He moves out of the Manor as soon as his house arrest ends. The further he gets from that horrible, Dark-stained place, the lighter he feels - so he keeps on going, and going, until he finds himself a small, cheap apartment in Muggle London. He is not permitted to use magic until after parole, and yet the restriction is more a relief than a burden. He doesn’t fit very well in the Muggle world, but he adjusts rather quickly. The anonymity is freeing. He can rebuild. Reinvent. Become something different.</p><p>As it turns out, it is easy to learn to be good and kind and compassionate when you are shown those traits on a daily basis - especially when they are directed at you.</p><p>Mr. Blake, the owner of the bookstore he works at, is a kind man. He gives Draco money for coffee. His wife makes Draco lunches for his long shifts. He buys Draco a coat when a particularly harsh winter strikes - and boots too, and then gives Draco these spectacular little pouches that can be warmed up in the mi-cro-wave and then tucked away in his pockets to keep him warm. He buys Draco Christmas presents and birthday presents and knows to keep a jar of sweets at the cashier, because Draco has a terrible sweet tooth. </p><p>When Draco passes out one day at work, he comes to with Mr. Blake crouched over him, attempting to call the ambulance on a mobile phone that he definitely does not know how to operate. Draco manages to convince him not to call emergency services after all, explaining that this happens all the time, that it’s the same problem he has with his hands shaking all the time.</p><p>‘Why didn’t you tell me about your disability?’ Mr. Blake asks worriedly. ‘I was never going to fire you for something like that. You <em>know </em>my son has MS.’</p><p>Draco spends the next few days learning about multiple sclerosis. In the wizarding world, non-magical diseases are not given the chance to harm their hosts the way they do in the Muggle world - and Draco wonders why the Statute of Secrecy exists when they could be curing Muggles of their afflictions, easing pain and suffering.</p><p>Returning to the wizarding world is far harder than he anticipates, but he is grateful to receive any kind of treatment for the spell damage. Goldren is more than Draco deserves, but maybe it is only because Goldren owes Draco’s mother a stack of favours from when they were students together. Draco returns the generosity by working as hard as he can, diligently and without complaint. </p><p>Warmth bleeds into his cold, empty life. He adopts a cat. He makes friends. He learns how to make potions that clear acne and soothe rheumatoid aches. He learns how to find a space in this new world and its new rules.</p><p>But it is still difficult to return to a world with <em>him </em>in it.</p><p>It isn’t as though he forgot about Harry Potter. </p><p>(It is, in fact, impossible to forget Harry Potter. Draco has wonderful, devastating dreams where he stands in the Astronomy Tower and has his wand ripped away by a boy with an angry mouth and lightning-green eyes, a boy who pushes him up against cold walls and tells him to <em>stay alive</em>. He has other dreams too, dreams of things that seem so real that they burn like acid in his lungs when he wakes up and makes him feel even more hollow than usual - but he cannot help but linger on the echoes of these dreams, languishing in <em>moss, soft and cool underfoot, a calloused hand in his own, a copse of trees full of peacock feathers and flowers, a boy’s laughter echoing beneath the canopy and broomsticks chasing out over the glistening waters of a vast lake.</em>) </p><p>It’s just that, in the wizarding world, it is impossible to avoid the Chosen One. His face is plastered in all the magazines, his name sprawled over the newspapers. Clothing stores start stocking Muggle-inspired outfits because Trainee Auror Potter wears this combination to the pub with his friends. Boys grow their hair out shaggy and untamed, and get tattoos of those round-rimmed glasses and a cartoon impression of a lightning bolt. Phoenix patterns become all the rage on clothing. There are potions sold that claim to make your eyes turn that wildfire-green, if only for a few moments (though in fact, there is no potion in the world that could replicate the colour of Potter’s eyes). </p><p>But Draco does his best to keep his distance. </p><p>He spends most of his time in the Muggle world. He talks to his friends (the few that remain in this country, who have not fled their persecution following the trials). He picks up bartending. He goes for coffee with Luna and visits museums with her, and even when she tries to persuade him otherwise, he keeps his distance. </p><p>‘He’s been looking for you,’ Luna says, when they take a leisurely stroll through the National Portrait Gallery and marvel at how full of life these paintings can be, even though they never move an inch. </p><p>‘Why?’ Draco asks, because he can’t begin to comprehend <em>Potter</em> looking for him. His absence should be a blessing on the universe, a dark smudge wiped from a flawless canvas. ‘He hates me.’</p><p>Luna sighs and takes his hand in hers. ‘You know that’s not true,’ she says gently. ‘Just write him something,’ she tells him. ‘One of your lovely letters, perhaps. I think he’d like it very much.’</p><p>It takes him fifty-three drafts to get it right. Fifty-three drafts, and a box of chocolates. </p><p>-</p><p>Draco kneels on the floor in front of Harry’s bed, holding the holly wand in his hands as tightly as though it were the remains of his shattered heart. Milky blue light spills in through the curtains as dawn approaches. The windows are open, and a chill lingers in Harry’s bedroom. The bed has not been slept in, and Draco does not dare to look up at it, hateful of Harry’s absence. </p><p>He wants to weep, but he already shed all his tears on the glossy ballroom floor. His mouth is bitter from the ruin left after the Aurors left. He wants to scream himself hoarse, but Teddy is sleeping somewhere downstairs, and Teddy’s suffered enough for one night.</p><p>He wishes he had one of his father’s cursed Time-Turners. He wants to spin its chambers between his fingers and watch time retreat to their moment on the balcony, when everything was wonderful, and the world had not yet ended.</p><p>Draco knows that Harry is a dangerous, powerful man, with many powerful, intimidating friends. He knows that Albus Dumbledore made Harry that way - moulded him and manipulated him into just the right circumstances, rewarding him when he made the correct connections, gently nudging him away from any less-than-favourable ones. </p><p>Small men with big words fear that kind of power - or worse, they covet it. And Draco knows the lengths that men like that would go, in the face of such power. </p><p>As the light grows, his grief shifts within him, growing teeth. He stands, his knees groaning in protest. It is cold in this room, and he has been kneeling here all night. He pushes his hair out of his face and runs his hand over the multitude of wrinkles worn into his suit. He glances at the softly glowing constellation of stars hanging on Harry’s wall, and his heart aches for the quiet, unassuming way Harry loves him. </p><p>A Tempus tells him has just gone seven-thirty. He gets into the shower and cleans himself up, makes himself presentable, and then Floos to the Granger-Weasley residence. </p><p>Hermione is curled up on the sofa, still in last night’s dress. She scrambles to her feet as Draco steps through the fireplace. Her mascara is a messy streak beneath her right eye. Draco isn’t sure if she’s been crying. </p><p>‘Have you heard anything?’ she asks. </p><p>He shakes his head. ‘I came to see how you were doing.’ He glances through the open archway towards the empty dining room. ‘Where are Ron and the children?’</p><p>Hermione rubs her hand over her eyes. ‘Ron’s taken the kids to stay at the Burrow,’ she replies. ‘A couple of people are coming over later to… to figure our next steps. I don’t want them to- I just want them somewhere safe.’</p><p>Draco nods. ‘Is there anyone else I should call?’</p><p>‘No, no, I’ve got everyone,’ Hermione replies. She bites her lip, her gaze wandering aimlessly over the well-decorated walls of her home. She shuffles back towards the sofa and drops heavily into it. ‘It’s just - you get so cocky, you know?’ she says. ‘He’s <em>Harry Potter</em>. He defeated Voldemort. He’s supposed to be untouchable.’</p><p>Draco shakes his head. ‘Nobody is untouchable,’ he says, forcing himself to keep his tone gentle. It isn’t Hermione’s fault things have unfolded this way.</p><p>He knows Hermione has been folding sheets of bubble-wrap precautions around Harry nearly all their lives, but there is no keeping Harry from danger. There is only the waiting for him to return, the bandaging of his wounds and the counting of his bruises when he drags his beaten body back home. Draco has made a lifetime profession of it. He has moulded himself into the best shapes to catch Harry when he falls.</p><p>‘He doesn’t deserve this,’ Hermione says, misery a lead-weight on her body. ‘He - Draco, he’s suffered so much. We all thought - with <em>you</em>, with you two finally - that it was finally…’ </p><p>She trails off and digs the heel of her palm into her eye, smearing her mascara up the rise of her cheekbone. There is nail polish on her toes, a cherry-red colour that serves as a reminder of the golden happiness they were all basking in yesterday. Draco, too, carries the joy of last night in his pocket - a box-shaped memento of a happy ending that almost happened, a promise almost kept. </p><p>(In a dingy alleyway, his heart full of young, reckless love, Draco once made a promise to Harry. The words burn in his throat, a brand pressed into his soul with a red-hot poker. <em>You’re not going to be a tragedy. I’m not going to be a tragedy. We’re going to have everything.</em>)</p><p>Behind him, the Floo flares to life. He turns in time to see Luna and Daphne step up from the fireplace. </p><p>‘Oh,’ says Hermione, struggling to her feet. ‘Oh, Daphne, your sister, is she alright? Her wedding, oh god, her wedding, it-’</p><p>‘She’s fine,’ Daphne interrupts, firmly but not unkindly. </p><p>‘That’s good,’ Hermione nods. She manages a broken, malformed smile, but it swiftly dissolves. ‘Have you heard anything?’ she asks, sounding too exhausted to be hopeful.</p><p>Daphne glances sideways at Luna, and a silent conversation passes between them formed of looks and raised eyebrows. They have always moved together in perfect synchronicity, but to see it now makes a bitter taste spread in Draco’s mouth. Harry has been gone not even ten hours, and he already sees his absence in everything - like dark spots of mould growing on a bedroom wall - and he <em>resents </em>it. </p><p>He is here to help, not hinder, so Draco swallows his burgeoning grief and steps aside as Luna hurries over to Hermione. </p><p>‘Let’s get some lovely tea on first,’ she says, rubbing Hermione’s arms comfortingly. ‘Yeah? Let’s do that.’</p><p>Draco is still watching Luna herd Hermione into the dining room, so he does not notice Daphne approaching him until she’s enveloped him in a tight hug. She is as warm as sunshine - <em>sunshine warmth from a sunshine woman</em> - and Draco feels the exhaustion ease its hold on him somewhat. </p><p>‘You feel like you haven’t slept,’ she remarks. A deep groove appears between her brows. ‘<em>Draco.</em> Must I remind you that you’re still recovering from very extensive curse damage?’</p><p>Draco sighs, closing his eyes momentarily. ‘I see that you still aren’t above conducting diagnoses without your patient’s consent,’ he says, but it lacks bite. </p><p>‘Hm.’ Daphne pulls away, bracing her hands against the backs of Draco’s arms. She dips her chin slightly so she can properly study his face. ‘I’ll tell you what Luna said to me this morning. She said, <em>problems are easier to solve when you have all your friends to help you</em>.’</p><p>Draco feels a smile pull reluctantly at his lips. He glances towards the dining room, where Luna has managed to coax Hermione into a chair. He can hear the boiling of the kettle and the soft clinking of cups being set on the table. </p><p>‘Thank Circe for Luna,’ he says. ‘Where would we all be without her?’</p><p>‘Hm,’ agrees Daphne. She nods her head towards the archway. ‘Shall we?’</p><p>They join the others in the dining room. Luna makes tea and miraculously produces ginger biscuits and Biscoff cookies. Hermione stares listlessly into her tea, dipping her biscuit into it until it breaks apart and floats in scattered clumps.</p><p>There is a faint roaring sound as the Floo comes to life once more. Hermione stands quickly, the legs of her chair scraping back over the carpeted floor. Ron ducks in through the archway, and Ginny follows right after, wearing her pyjamas and a pinched expression. </p><p>‘Have you heard anything?’ Hermione asks, for what might be the hundredth time since Harry’s arrest. </p><p>Ron gives his sister a <em>look</em>. Ginny huffs out an angry sigh and pulls a letter from her trouser pocket.</p><p>Draco’s stomach plummets down past his polished shoes, digging resolutely towards the centre of the earth.</p><p>‘Neville owled just now,’ says Ginny. ‘There are Aurors at Hogwarts. They want to conduct an investigation on school premises, but Neville says they don’t have a warrant and McGonagall is putting up a serious fight. Apparently she hasn’t been this angry since the Umbridge incident.’</p><p>‘Oh god,’ whispers Hermione. She presses her shaking hands against her chest. ‘This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening again.’</p><p>Luna puts on another kettle. Ron holds Hermione tightly as she begins to cry, tears dragging black tracks of molten mascara down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with wave after wave of shuddering sobs, a dam finally rupturing after being filled to the brink, and this is how Draco knows that these are the first tears she has shed since they took Harry away.</p><p>Daphne migrates around the dining room table and gently guides the youngest Weasley sibling into one of the seats at the table. ‘Cream?’ she asks. ‘Sugar?’</p><p>‘Dump some whiskey or Bailey’s in it,’ Ginny replies. ‘I don’t care, just make it strong.’ She leans back in the chair and digs her fingers into her hair, dragging her fingernails against her scalp. ‘I can’t fucking believe this is happening.’</p><p>Draco closes his eyes, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the mountain of emotions building up in this tiny room. He thinks of the silence of Grimmauld Place, a corpse gutted of its heart and soul. He thinks of the way Harry <em>glowed</em> when they danced. And then, suddenly, he thinks of the look of steely resolution on Harry’s face as he strode across the ballroom to his would-be-captors - not a man ambushed at all, but a man facing down a long-awaited duel. </p><p>‘He knew,’ Draco said aloud. He opens his eyes and uncrosses his arms, leaning instead on the dining table as the others turn to look at him. ‘Harry knew this was going to happen.’</p><p>Ginny’s mouth dropped open in a noiseless, frustrated scream. ‘Then <em>why</em> didn’t he tell us?’ she uttered, gesturing sharply with her hands.</p><p>Unbidden, a memory comes to Draco: an argument, witnessed in the cloakroom of a pub; Ginny’s cheeks reddened with frustration, Harry’s face an iron mask; <em>Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?</em> and <em>There’s no bloody point in explaining things to you that you’d never understand</em>; shaking hands clenched into fists, singe-marks on old floorboards; and afterwards, Harry’s wiry body leaning into Draco’s, his voice muffled by the lapel of Draco’s coat; <em>I’m just tired, that’s all, Draco, it’s fine, but I’m just, I’m tired</em>.</p><p>He is here to help, not hinder, so Draco takes a deep breath and says, as calmly as he can, ‘Harry has never been very good at sharing his burdens.’</p><p>From beyond the island that separates the dining room from the kitchen, Daphne makes a soft sound of agreement. </p><p>‘Fuck Dumbledore,’ Ginny utters vehemently. </p><p>Ron leans over his wife, picks up her tea with all its floating biscuit carcasses, and lifts it as though in a toast. ‘Yup,’ he says, grinning humourlessly. ‘Fuck Dumbledore.’ </p><p>Another memory: a gathering of loved ones around a hospital bed, a silence that hangs over them like a living creature; determination a hot coal in Draco’s mouth as he stares each of them down; <em>I believe it is high time we have a conversation about the machinations of Albus Dumbledore</em>; Hermione’s face as white as the sheets tucked around Harry’s motionless body, Ron’s shock and disbelief morphing quickly into fury; <em>You should have seen the bars on his window, Draco.</em> </p><p>‘I should make some calls,’ Hermione says. She rubs at her eyes and sniffles, tears still rolling hot and fat down her face. ‘I - I should talk to some more people.’</p><p>Draco feels a part of his heart cave in, an overripe fruit pressed too hard beneath an unforgiving thumb. He reaches across the table to take Hermione’s hand in his. ‘Less of that, please, Advocate Granger-Weasley,’ he says. ‘You need rest.’</p><p>She shakes her head, her fingers latching around his hand in an iron grip. </p><p>The wards chime, ringing out an inappropriately cheerful tune, and there comes a knocking on the door. Ron squeezes his wife’s shoulder once and heads off to answer the door. </p><p>‘Oh,’ comes Ron’s voice from the foyer. ‘Oh, hi. Come on in, I guess.’</p><p>Draco recognizes the steady footfalls even before he sees Blaise enter the dining room. The Unspeakable is in a fresh change of clothes, his face clean-shaven and his hair perfectly parted. To the casual observer he might look composed, but there is a wild edge to the way he scans the room that Draco recognizes from when Blaise used to stay up all night in their common room, scribbling out papers and drafting application letters to summer apprenticeships. </p><p>Hermione looks up at Blaise with swollen eyes, and, once again, asks, ‘Have you heard anything?’ </p><p>Draco’s heart is pulped fruit. He holds Hermione’s hand tightly.</p><p>Blaise shifts his weight slightly and glances around the room, his eyes lingering on Ginny. His gaze lands on Draco, and whatever he sees there makes all his hesitation evaporate. ‘Oh,’ he sighs, ‘to hell with it. The DMLE reached out to the Department of Mysteries, since Potter’s technically under our office. They’re offering a deal.’</p><p>‘A deal,’ repeats Ron. He folds his arms and leans against the wall. For a moment, Draco can see the echo of the Auror he once was - tall, broad-shouldered, grim-jawed and absolutely terrifying in his ability to stare someone down.  ‘What deal?’</p><p>The corner of Blaise’s mouth tightens. He shifts his weight again, dancing from one foot to the next (an old nervous tic from learning ballet under his mother’s strict instructions). ‘They’ll let him out if he agrees to another modifier tattoo,’ he reveals, wincing even as he pronounces the words. ‘One that cuts him off from his magic. All his magic. Permanently.’</p><p>‘I’m going to murder the first person who attempts that,’ Daphne says calmly. It does not sound like an empty threat.</p><p>Blaise seems to give up his shuffling dance of nervousness and falls into the nearest seat with only half his usual grace. ‘Well,’ he says, biting out the syllable as though it has personally offended him, ‘it’s either that, or he can transfer from the Department of Mysteries to the DMLE to work as an asset for their new program.’</p><p>‘They want to weaponize him.’ Ron is so angry he is quiet, and he is never quiet.</p><p>Blaise makes a gesture with his hand that falls in tandem with the tilt of his head, as though to say, <em>yes of course</em>. ‘There is a Muggle saying about power and its corrupting effects, I believe,’ he says.</p><p>Draco lifts his hand and brushes it over his chest, feeling for the wand holster strapped there beneath his clothes. The holly wand burns against his skin, agitated at being separated from its master. Draco knows that, although its counterpart lies entombed with Dumbledore’s body, he carries that weight too. He does not know how Harry shouldered its burden for so many years - how it never warped him into something monstrous, the way it had done so many of its previous masters.</p><p>Draco closes his eyes and tries to find a way to breathe. His exhausted mind stutters through memories like a television with bad signal flickering between channels.</p><p>(Harry, complaining about paperwork and being shoved unceremoniously back into active duty, expression loose and warm from the whiskey sour in his glass, beautiful and young and wild as lightning branching over a storm-rough sea.)</p><p>(Harry’s stony anger as he says,<em> Lucius Malfoy will die in Azkaban, just as he deserves.</em>)</p><p>(Hermione’s face appearing in Draco’s fireplace in the middle of the night, tears sizzling as they fall onto the coals beneath<em> - Diagon Alley was attacked, it’s Harry, he’s -</em>)</p><p>(Harry, a broken doll stitched together with gauze and thread, unable to breathe without assistance, and then, later, attending funeral after funeral on crutches, so many friends gone in a splintering second.)</p><p>(The smell of wet grass and broomstick wax, and, <em>My father will hear about this!</em>)</p><p>(Harry complaining about getting approvals for George to join a task force<em> - Why is there so much bureaucracy involved in prevention and none at all in punishment?</em>)</p><p>(His own voice, dulled with years of acceptance - <em>In the end, Lucius always gets what he wants, regardless of what he has to do to achieve it.</em>)</p><p>(His father’s smile, as the Aurors led him away, fat and content, a cat filled to the brink with cream.)</p><p>(Professor Lupin packing up his things, a resigned slump in his shoulders, guilt a tiny, cold pebble in Draco’s stomach.)</p><p>(Harry’s laughter, brilliant and golden as it echoes through Draco’s living room over the tinny Christmas music from the wireless - <em>Dark magic, me? I was just casting protective spells to make sure Josephine Spindles didn’t get eaten alive by Neville’s plant.</em>)</p><p>And then he finally sees it - the thread woven through the tapestry - the pattern in the chaos. It is so well hidden, so artfully tucked away, that it is a wonder that Harry found it at all. But, then again, Harry saw things that nobody ever knew to look for.</p><p>‘I have to make a call,’ Draco says suddenly, standing from his seat. ‘I have a hunch - but I want my lawyer to confirm it.’</p><p>Hermione tries to get up from her seat but is halted by her husband’s broad hands on her shoulders. ‘Can we do anything?’ she asks anyways. ‘How can we help?’</p><p>‘I am afraid this is a Slytherin’s work,’ Draco replies, offering one last smile over his shoulder. He gestures at Blaise - a subtle flick of his fingers - and nods towards the hallway outside the dining room.  ‘Come, Blaise. Let’s talk.’</p><p>He made a promise to Harry, years ago in a dingy alleyway stinking of piss and cheap booze - and he does not break his promises.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It was meant to be one chapter of Draco’s POV and now it has bled into two, agh. The upside, though, is that I’ve written/planned out the next chapter and just need to edit. Because I write un-betaed like the human flaming trash pile that I am.<br/>I always spend longer writing these than I expect and it has been the busiest, crummiest month for a variety of reasons. Thanks for bearing with my haphazard uploading schedule.<br/>This title is also a song! This one’s by Florence and the Machine and it’s called Third Eye.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. unravel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>‘I am a Black,’ Draco says. ‘This is the only way we know how to love.’</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Draco tries to keep to his resolutions. He tries, he really does. </p>
<p>But Potter is a storm breaking in the sky above him, the mud and rock and silt sliding from the mountain and rolling into the river, and he can’t help but let himself be swept away. </p>
<p>He drops by the bookstore that Draco works at, on rainy weekends after his shift when all the lights have come on in the street and the store is empty but for a few stragglers. He leans against a bookshelf, reading a paperback edition of <em>IQ84 </em>while Draco reshelves the non-fiction section. His hair is almost too-long, falling into his eyes as he worries his bottom lip with his teeth.</p>
<p>‘Why the hell does anyone read this?’ he says aloud, waving the book at Draco. ‘This is twisted stuff.’</p>
<p>Draco climbs down off the stepladder and repositions it to the other side of the bookshelf. He laughs when he catches sight of Potter’s disgusted expression. ‘What part of the book are you on?’</p>
<p>‘Aliens are climbing out of a little girl’s mouth, or something,’ Potter says, and then winces. ‘Actually, I’m not even sure what the plot is anymore.’</p>
<p>Draco climbs back up the stairs and continues sliding books into place. ‘I told you you weren’t going to like Murakami,’ he says, glancing down over his shoulder. </p>
<p>‘I thought you were just being precocious,’ Potter retorts. He slaps Draco on the calf gently with the book.  ‘Making fun of my stupidity or whatever.’ </p>
<p>‘Well,’ says Draco, trying very hard not to think about the inherent eroticism of being hit on the leg with a <em>fucking paperback, </em>‘even if Murakami isn’t to your refined taste, you can’t give it back. We don’t take refunds.’</p>
<p>‘Piss off, Malfoy,’ Potter says fondly, and this time he slaps Draco’s leg with the flat of his hand. ‘Come on, I’m getting hungry.’</p>
<p>Draco tries very hard not to think about the inherent eroticism of <em>that</em> and fails spectacularly. </p>
<p>The rain grows torrential, so they abandon dinner plans, opting instead for takeout at Draco’s tiny, rundown flat. Potter’s sweater is absolutely soaked through from their mad dash in the rain, so he peels it off with great effort and drapes it over Draco’s radiator to dry. There is a flash of skin and lean muscle.</p>
<p>Draco tries very hard not to look, but then Potter calls his name and makes a terrible joke, and Draco can’t <em>help</em> but respond with something scathing. The tragedy of it is that he is forced to look upon the object of his desires, and once he looks, he cannot bring himself to stop.</p>
<p>Potter’s shirt is new, better fitted than his usual garb. It stretches over his broad shoulders, pulls against his torso. He has filled out over the years they spent apart - no longer skinny, knees no longer knobbly. His hair is wild as it falls over the silver-white cracks of the scar on his forehead. Outside, lightning forks across the purple-dark sky, mirroring the pattern perfectly. His eyes glow in the dim light of the energy-saving bulbs, and he grins wickedly at Draco as lightning flares again in the distance and thunder shakes foundations of the building. </p>
<p>Potter doesn’t jump at the explosion of sound. He laughs. He is a man used to flying several hundred feet in the air in the middle of thunderstorms and blizzards and all sorts of apocalyptic weather - a man who runs into the line of fire, not away from it.</p>
<p>Draco doesn’t want to be in love with Potter, but you can’t outrun a storm - not by broom, not by train, not even by turning on your heel and Disapparating.</p>
<p>But Potter is as much a god of creature comforts as he is a storm. </p>
<p>As with every time they order takeout, he plates each carton of food with great care. He likes the ritual of eating together at the table with proper cutlery and plates and bowls. Draco once asked him why he likes it so much, and the answer made his heart hurt. </p>
<p>(<em>I never got to eat at the table when I was young</em>, Potter explained, as casually as though he were reciting the colour of his bedroom walls. <em>And when I did eat, I only ever got leftovers.</em>)</p>
<p>Draco puts on the kettle to make them chai. He watches Potter happily pouring daal into Draco’s cereal bowl and hates how easy it is to please this man who deserves<em> everything</em> and receives <em>nothing</em>.</p>
<p>He loves Potter. He loves him and will always love him, even after death, even after they have both become ashes and atoms floating in the great expanse of the quiet universe.  </p>
<p>Draco puts on the radio as they eat, coaxing out sunshine tunes to battle the tempest outside. </p>
<p>Potter has nearly no table manners. He leans his elbows on the table, tears apart chapati with his fingertips and licks curry off the back of his hand. It is infuriating how much Draco wants him.</p>
<p>Draco has some ice cream in the freezer, saved precisely for days like this, because he knows that Potter loves dunking a scoop of vanilla into his chai like an absolute <em>heathen.</em> He sits and watches Potter devour his cursed creation, listens as Potter reels off his latest strategy for weaving Grimmauld Place’s network of protective spells back together. He is viciously smart, and he has a talent for spells and charms that puts even Granger to shame. Draco suspects that many people underestimate Potter’s intelligence simply because he has the attention span of a rabid squirrel and a level of obliviousness that is physically painful to witness. </p>
<p>Potter finishes his ice cream and continues ranting, waving his spoon emphatically. Draco is a little out of his depth - Potter’s knowledge of defensive spells is somewhat beyond the scope of Draco’s apprenticeship and Hogwarts education - but he tries to keep up as best as he can. He retrieves Potter’s cup, fills it with more tea, and drops another scoop of vanilla ice cream in it. He should know better than to enable the Auror’s insatiable addiction to sweets, but he is a weak, weak man.</p>
<p>‘Do you think I could like, splash a bit of potion onto my front door?’ Potter asks him. ‘Some kind of repellent for raving fans?’</p>
<p>Draco stares at him. ‘No, Potter,’ he says, resisting the urge to flick the other man in the forehead. ‘That is not how potions work.’</p>
<p>‘Why not?’ argues Potter. ‘Surely it’s worth a try.’</p>
<p>‘Am I to assume you slept through your mandatory potions training, Auror Potter?’ Draco asks, folding his arms over his chest. ‘Or must I provide you with a personal training session so that you don’t inadvertently kill yourself <em>and</em> Granger’s husband with your blatant disregard for basic magical theory?’</p>
<p>Potter beams as though Draco has given him the most wonderful compliment. ‘I can’t <em>wait</em> to work with you when you get your qualifications,’ he announces. </p>
<p>‘You’re ridiculous.’</p>
<p>‘Love you too, you great ponce.’</p>
<p>Draco hates and loves Potter in equal measure. When he does things like this, when he <em>says</em> things like this, there is no distance left for Draco to keep, and he falls, and falls, and falls. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Toward the tail end of fifth year, Severus started teaching Draco potions to be used on a battlefield. Draco knows now that it was a dismal attempt to build Draco a shelter for the oncoming storm, even though they both knew nothing could lessen its devastating blow.</p>
<p>It was after dinner, in Severus’s private quarters, when Draco’s mentor first showed him how to treat gangrene. <em>If you want to cure the wound, </em>he explained, unravelling a particularly gruesome diagram, <em>you must find the cause of the rot.</em></p>
<p>Draco flips over the page on the ledger and finds it exactly where he expects it to be - <em>the rot.</em></p>
<p>He turns the volume around and slides it across the desk towards his lawyer. ‘Tell me if that’s what I think it is,’ he says.</p>
<p>Acquafredda frowns as inspects the record. He lifts his hand to his neck, where his familiar is curled beneath the fold of his shirt collar. ‘<em>C’est ça.</em>’</p>
<p>Draco leans back in his chair. ‘There are three more payments precisely like that one,’ he states, tapping the figures with his forefinger. ‘Fiscal year 1997. Fiscal year 1995. Fiscal year 1990.’</p>
<p>The lawyer nods in quiet confirmation. The movement startles his milk snake from its slumber, and the creature winds its way down from Acquafredda’s collar and into his shirt pocket.</p>
<p>From where he has been standing for the past several minutes, staring deeply into the fire, Blaise snorts with acerbic laughter. ‘I wish I could say I was surprised,’ he says. He knocks his fist lightly on the ornate mantle. ‘I really wish I could.’</p>
<p>‘This will be difficult to confirm,’ Acquafredda says. ‘Not without requesting the Selwyn accounts and alerting them.’</p>
<p>‘Then we’ll draw a chalk silhouette around their shadow,’ Draco says. ‘If you’ll forgive the metaphor.’</p>
<p>Acquafredda tilts his head. ‘Not at all,’ he says, smiling pleasantly. ‘It is a good metaphor. They cast a long shadow - let us, hm, let us see if we can shine a very bright light on them. For now, we may start with Mr. Liu’s documents.’</p>
<p>‘He and Astoria should be here in the next few minutes,’ Blaise tells them both, his gaze lingering on Draco for a breath longer than it should. ‘Pansy owled to ask if she should take a portkey from Paris, but I’ve put her on Narcissa watch. Hope that’s alright with you.’</p>
<p>‘Please,’ Draco sighs. </p>
<p>Somewhere in the endless days of being trapped at the end of Lucius’s wand, his mother had latched onto Harry (or perhaps the idea of him being, once again, symbolic of their deliverance) and used him as a barometer for how fucked up the world was. She is, unsurprisingly, not taking the news of Harry’s arrest well. </p>
<p>Blaise drops his hand from the fireplace and rubs his hand over his face tiredly. ‘Right,’ he announces. ‘I am in sore need of coffee. Would either of you like any?’</p>
<p>Acquafredda rises from his seat, buttoning his suit jacket as he does. ‘I will make the coffee,’ he offers. He gestures at the empty chair at the table. ‘Please, sit. You are both exhausted.’</p>
<p>Blaise reluctantly concedes, falling into the chair with only half of his usual grace. He casts a quick glance over the ledger on the table and winces. ‘Do you ever wish we were born to different families?’ he asks, looking up at Draco. </p>
<p>Draco lets out a scoff. He gestures at the silvery scar peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt, and then at the open ledger. </p>
<p>‘Constantly,’ adds Acquafredda, tapping his wand on the coffee pot to fill it up. </p>
<p>(He hails from one of the oldest magical families in Barcelona, but - like Draco - he has long since drifted from his point of origin. He gave his enormous inheritance away to war orphanages and charities and married a Venezuelan wizard who occasionally likes to perform in drag at the local gay bar. He also has two sons, both adopted from Muggle orphanages that did not know what to do with their random bursts of accidental magic, and has named each of them after prominent scientists. Draco likes to attend their music recitals from time to time.)</p>
<p>‘You can marry into a new family,’ Draco offers Blaise, a smirk creeping onto his face. ‘The Weasleys are a rather progressive bunch.’</p>
<p>Blaise’s responding glare could cover the Sahara in frost. Before he can open his mouth to deliver a scathing remark, however, the hearth flares brilliant green, and Stephen Liu ducks out from beneath the mantle. Astoria follows not long after, her long hair pinned up out of her face in a low bun. She looks tired, her mouth tugging down at the corners as she dusts the soot off the hem of her robes.</p>
<p>‘Evening, boys,’ Stephen greets, nodding at each of them. He brandishes a thick, plastic binder. ‘I dug up the documents you asked about.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, wonderful,’ says Acquafredda. The coffee pot makes a chirping noise as it finishes brewing. He gestures toward the desk with his left hand as he begins to pour the coffee with his right hand. ‘Put them on the table there so we can have a look.’ </p>
<p>Astoria makes a beeline for Draco as he gets up to greet her. Though she is barely tall enough to reach his shoulders, she is still strong enough to squeeze the air out of his lungs as she wraps her arms around him. She smells like a childhood home ought to, like old wool and butter and flowers, and for a moment Draco feels an unnamed emotion catch him by the throat. </p>
<p>‘It’s always a little dark before the dawn,’ she whispers to him, her palm pressed firmly against the centre of his back.</p>
<p>Draco smiles, looking up at the ceiling as his eyes begin to sting. He really did think he was out of tears.</p>
<p>(In an attempt to repay Daphne for her unflinching kindness, Draco once visited Astoria’s sickbed with a box of chocolate eclairs wrapped in white ribbon. She was so small, a sliver of the moon about to disappear in the night sky, her soul fastened to life by a fragile thread, but she was so gentle when she took her big sister’s hand and whispered, <em>don’t worry, it’s always a little dark before the dawn.</em>)</p>
<p>Draco manages to compose himself by the time Astoria releases him. He adjusts his shirt and waistcoat, drawing himself up to his full height as he turns his attention towards the binder Stephen has set upon the desk.</p>
<p>‘How good is your potions knowledge?’ Draco asks Stephen, flicking open the binder. </p>
<p>‘Pretty good,’ Stephen replies, frowning slightly. He tucks his hands in his trouser pockets, tilting his head slightly as he glances between Draco, Blaise, and Acquafredda. ‘Has to be, with my family’s line of work.’</p>
<p>It is simple enough work finding the corresponding dates. Like a blackbird perched in a tree, they are easier to find once you know what you’re looking for. Draco cross-checks them with the Malfoy family ledger, bending slightly over the table as he runs his fingers down the records lightly. </p>
<p>‘And how good is your alchemy?’ Draco asks, straightening up.</p>
<p>Stephen frowns slightly. ‘Passed the national exam first try, fresh out of school,’ he says. ‘A qualification in alchemy is a prerequisite to join the Singaporean Apothecary Association.’</p>
<p>‘Stephen is their New York liaison,’ Astoria chimes in. She slings her arm through her husband’s and looks up at him, full of love and pride. </p>
<p>Draco feels a jab of envy and dark sorrow. The ring box burns a hole in his pocket. He ignores it and turns both the ledger and the binder towards Stephen. </p>
<p>‘Take a look at that and tell me if you see a troubling pattern,’ he says, jerking his chin towards the table. He takes a step back with his arms folded over his chest, allowing for Stephen to scan the figures properly. </p>
<p>The pleasant lines of Stephen's face begin to harden as his eyes glide over the documents. He mutters something under his breath, and though Draco has little-to-no understanding of Cantonese, he knows the intonation of a swear word when he hears one. </p>
<p>‘What is it, <em>baobei</em>?’ Astoria asks anxiously. ‘What did you see? What does it mean?’</p>
<p>‘It means I need to speak with my family,’ Stephen says grimly. He shakes his head as he pulls out his mobile phone and begins to type into it. ‘I think we’re going to have to delay the honeymoon indefinitely until we sort out this mess.’</p>
<p>Astoria nods, patting her husband’s arm. ‘Do what you have to. Are you going to call your uncle?’ she asks.</p>
<p>Stephen nods distractedly, bringing his phone up to his ear as he ducks out of the study and into the hallway outside. As the door swings closed behind him, Draco can see the man’s shoulders draw into a tight line, as though bracing for impact. The yelling is audible even from the phone’s tiny speakers. </p>
<p>Astoria sinks into the closest chair and sighs. ‘Will someone explain to me what is going on?’ she demands.</p>
<p>Acquafredda pulls a small silver flask from the pocket of his waistcoat and tips a tiny bit of it into a cup before handing the coffee to her. ‘I can go through it with you if you like,’ he offers. </p>
<p>‘Oh, would you?’ Astoria sits up, brightening visibly. ‘That would be very kind.’</p>
<p>Draco allows himself to watch Astoria and Acquafredda for a bit, as the latter launches into the beginnings of the explanation of what they have uncovered. He nods to himself and turns away, walking towards the bay windows on the other end of the study. The curtains are half-drawn, revealing the distant, glittering view of the Shard as it catches the last shimmering rays of the sunset. Time seems to have travelled in strange hops and skips - though that might just be the sleep deprivation finally getting to Draco. He feels untethered, as though in any moment he might start drifting up into the vastness of the sky. </p>
<p>Blaise is nearly soundless as he makes his way across the study to Draco’s side. ‘Out of interest, Draco,’ he asks, his tone intentionally mild, ‘what are you going to do with this information?’</p>
<p>Draco flattens his lips into something too angry to be a smile. ‘Blackmail the Minister of Magic into freeing my fiancé and putting away the people responsible,’ he replies, not bothering to hide the icy rage from his voice. ‘And then tip off every independent newspaper I can find before the DMLE can bury this.’</p>
<p>A strange expression grows behind Blaise’s carefully maintained mask. ‘You’re a feral creature when you’re in love,’ he says, and he almost sounds impressed. </p>
<p>Draco thinks of a conversation he once had with his aunt - a sad, honest conversation, about the other love of Remus’s life, the beautiful boy with a dangerous smile. He was the only other person in their family who managed to break free of the dark, insidious web of the Black influence. His absence is a yawning cavern in Andromeda’s heart, even if his loss meant Tonks and Remus could find each other (because love is not a finite resource, and Tonks also knew how to love Remus as he deserved to be loved, and knew how to heal the ragged wounds torn into the both of them by an unkind world). Andromeda showed him the letters she and her cousin exchanged, when the world had not yet tasted the bitter devastation of Voldemort’s first war.</p>
<p>Sirius’s love is a dark sun. Its heat still burns in his letters, long after he is gone.</p>
<p>‘I am a Black,’ Draco says. ‘This is the only way we know how to love.’</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>There is a moment that Draco clings onto, one that perhaps even Harry has forgotten about, and it is this:</p>
<p>He wakes up one Sunday morning and he cannot get out of bed.</p>
<p>Draco likes being happy. He works very hard at it. He places the deep well of darkness aside, refuses to live in the bog of his awful past, and instead twists his misery into humour like a jovial flick of the wand at a Boggart. He surrounds himself with lovely things, purges his life of anything that might link back to the Manor, to <em>him</em>. He makes friends who are funny and messy and love unconditionally and a bit too much, as though somehow, he can absorb their loveliness through osmosis. He never says anything mean-spirited anymore, afraid of it staining his life like ink spilling over a white tablecloth.</p>
<p>(He asks his therapist if it is unhealthy to put everything bad in a room, close the door, and leave for a bit until he is ready to face it again. <em>That’s completely normal</em>, she tells him. <em>The human brain isn’t made to process everything at once.</em>)</p>
<p>Some days he trips up, and the happiness dissolves like a lump of salt in a vast lake. He grasps for it but comes away with nothing but empty hands and a savage burning in his lungs. </p>
<p><em>I’m sorry</em>, he texts Harry. His eyes are swollen and heavy from hours of crying. <em>Can’t come out. Having a bad day.</em></p>
<p>He drops his phone by his head and pulls the covers over his chin. He listens to the wind batter the walls of the building and watches the snow fling itself against his single-glazed windows. He should turn the heating up but he cannot find the strength to move further than this safe cocoon of lavender-scented detergent and fuzzy socks. Artemis curls over his head and licks his brows in a valiant attempt to cheer him up, and it almost makes him cry harder because of how much this silly little creature loves him.</p>
<p>His phone dings a few minutes later.</p>
<p>
  <em>Be there in ten.</em>
</p>
<p>Harry, as always, Apparates directly into Draco’s kitchen. Draco can hear the soft <em>pop</em> as he arrives, the rustling and clinking as he navigates the kitchen with familiar ease. It’s irritating how quickly he became accustomed to invading Draco’s space.</p>
<p>(It’s not invading, not really. Draco wants him here all the time. Harry is loud and boisterous and hilariously snarky, and he has amazing taste in music and is sinfully good at cooking. He is the lighthouse in the storm, the raft to which Draco clings desperately, but the last thing Draco wishes to be is a burden. He has burdened enough people in his lifetime.)</p>
<p>The door squeaks softly as Harry steps into the bedroom. Artemis makes a soft, purring meow, and he takes a running jump off the bed into Harry’s arms. Draco can hear the soft <em>oof</em> that Harry makes as Artemis’s considerable weight hits him in the chest. He sits up in bed, suddenly and hideously aware of his bedraggled appearance and the swollen shape of his eyes. </p>
<p>‘Hello,’ says Harry. His smile is a quiet, tender thing, and he is so beautiful that Draco almost forgets his misery. ‘It’s a bit cold in here today, isn’t it?’</p>
<p>Draco’s mouth feels full of marbles, his throat dry and raw. He nods silently and pulls his covers up to his chest. </p>
<p>Harry’s eyes follow his movements, and the smile turns sweet. Fond. ‘Would you like some mocha and breakfast in bed?’ he asks.</p>
<p>Draco clears his throat. ‘You don’t have to-’</p>
<p>‘I already brought the ingredients over,’ Harry interrupts. </p>
<p>On a good day, Draco would probably feel exasperated with Harry’s characteristic stubbornness, but instead he just feels a wave of overwhelming emotion - a tangled, slippery thing that he cannot quite decipher. He sighs softly and tangles his hands in his lap, beneath the sheets. </p>
<p>‘Alright,’ he says, admitting defeat. </p>
<p>Harry grins broadly. ‘I’ll bring the wireless in here so you can listen to your programs while I cook, yeah?’</p>
<p><em>Don’t</em>, Draco wants to say. <em>Just climb into bed with me. Hold me. Don’t go.</em></p>
<p>He says nothing out loud, and Harry goes back out, returning with the wireless already switched on and tuned to BBC One. He props it up against Draco’s pillows, leaning close as he does, close enough for Draco to smell the faint amber hints of his cologne. Draco bought this cologne from Debenhams - saved up three months’ wages for it, too, like the lovesick fool that he is, and it was certainly worth it to see Harry’s face light up when he unwrapped the expensive packaging. </p>
<p>Harry’s fingers drift over Draco’s cheek. They are so warm they burn against his skin, and Draco shivers helplessly.</p>
<p>‘You’re freezing,’ Harry frowns, misinterpreting it entirely. ‘I’ll turn the heater on.’</p>
<p>Draco does not know how he will afford the heating if he leaves it on for the whole afternoon, but Harry silences his protest with a stern look.</p>
<p>‘I’ll pay for the bloody heating,’ he huffs. ‘Tell me how much it is, and I’ll transfer it. Alright?’</p>
<p>‘You mean, you’ll get Hermione to arrange the payments for you,’ Draco responds, smiling despite everything. ‘You never know how to handle your Muggle accounts.’</p>
<p>Harry laughs. ‘Cheek.’</p>
<p>Draco lies in bed and does not, in fact, listen to his programs. Instead, he watches through the open door as the man he loves (unrequitedly) moves through his kitchen with careless familiarity. He listens to the kettle boiling on the hob, to the tiny curses that Harry utters as he burns his fingertips on something hot. He clutches the blankets tighter around himself and imagines walking up behind Harry, imagines burying his face in the nape of that neck, of letting himself soak up all that hot-water-bottle warmth from Harry’s cologne-scented skin. He imagines settling his hands on Harry’s stomach, and lets himself think of the way they would sway together in gentle tandem. </p>
<p><em>You don’t deserve him</em>, whispers a voice in his head.</p>
<p>Draco agrees, but he has long since given up fighting against that want - that terrible, unavoidable longing.</p>
<p>Harry brings in an absolutely lavish breakfast with a steaming mug of mocha, and sets the tray down in the centre of Draco’s bed. He gently eases himself down onto the bed, toeing off his shoes and crossing his legs. He picks the mug up with his fingertips, twisting the handle in Draco’s direction so he can take the mug without burning himself. </p>
<p>‘You wanted to try the eggs benedict at that place - the brunch we were supposed to go to,’ Harry explains, nodding at the near-perfect eggs benedict on the plate. There is also smoked salmon, and kippers, and bagels spread with cream cheese, and strawberries with the stems cut off. ‘I looked up the recipe a while ago. Pretty hard to make eggs benedict, as it turns out,’ he adds, chuckling.</p>
<p>Draco is torn between sunrise-bright love and ugly guilt. He teeters towards the latter. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I know we had plans-’</p>
<p>‘Please stop apologising,’ Harry says, grabbing him by the wrist. ‘Think about the number of times <em>I’ve</em> cancelled on you.’</p>
<p>‘That was work,’ Draco reasons.</p>
<p>‘And <em>this</em> is your health,’ Harry retorts. ‘I care a bloody lot more about your health than I do about stupid paperwork and patrols and stake-outs. Besides, it’s too rubbish out for us to have a nice day anyways,’ he adds, nodding towards the blizzard howling outside. ‘May as well have a nice day in.’</p>
<p>Draco feels a fluttering in his throat, a scratching like tiny claws crawling up out of his neck, and the tears fall before he can get himself under control. </p>
<p>Harry makes a soft noise - a sighing <em>oh</em>, something sympathetic and worried - and he pushes the tray to the side, peels Draco’s hands off the mocha and sets it down. He gathers Draco up into his grasp with one smooth, effortless show of strength. They slot together like puzzle pieces.</p>
<p>‘I’m sorry I’m such a burden sometimes,’ Draco mumbles, his mouth full of Harry’s jumper. </p>
<p>Harry sighs again, and Draco lifts and falls with the expanding of Harry’s chest. His arm is a comforting weight around Draco, his leg pulled up to brace the side of Draco’s torso. He is steady, steady, the rocky outcrop from which the lighthouse stands, and Draco clings to him and breathes.</p>
<p>‘You could never be a burden,’ says Harry, as though it is a universal fact. ‘Not to me. Never to me.’</p>
<p>Draco shivers. His mind supplies unkind words in the silence that follows, and as always, they resonate within his skull in his father’s icy baritone. <em>Worthless freak. Pathetic, ungrateful coward. </em></p>
<p>Harry’s hand is hot like an iron brand when it touches Draco’s cheek. He guides Draco’s chin upwards until their gazes finally meet. His eyes are the same devastating green as that fateful day in the dungeons. </p>
<p>‘Listen,’ Harry says, low and serious. ‘You are <em>everything</em> to me. Do you understand that? You make me believe that this horrible, miserable world can get better.’</p>
<p>Draco’s breath catches in his throat. His love for Harry has deep roots, and he feels them reach further down towards his core as he looks into those lightning-green eyes, pinned down by the intensity of that unflinching gaze. ‘Why?’ he whispers.</p>
<p>Harry pushes up Draco’s sleeve and unflinchingly presses his thumb against the Mark, never once breaking eye-contact. His magic feels like a thunderstorm in the best way, piercing through the ugly, nausea-inducing pain of the Mark. His is like the sting of spices and the atmosphere crack of electrocuted air.  </p>
<p>‘Because of who you’ve become,’ he says firmly. ‘Because they tried to put you in the dark, and yet here you are, in full bloom.’</p>
<p><em>I only bloom with the seedlings you have planted within me</em>, Draco thinks. </p>
<p>Harry smiles, a gentle, lopsided thing, and the deep roots of Draco’s love grow even deeper.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>It is quiet in Grimmauld Place as Draco drags the nib of his quill against parchment. It is a good letter. An effective letter. It has hard edges and polite threats, and just enough flattery to sweeten its bitter medicine. </p>
<p>Lucius Malfoy gave him an armoury of weapons. It gives Draco a strange sense of satisfaction to use them against him now. His gift at letter-writing is some parts talent, some parts a very thorough education in diplomacy and bureaucracy. </p>
<p>There is a noise in the hallway beyond the kitchen - a scuffling of slippered feet against the rug - and Teddy wanders into the light. His hair is rumpled, dyed an odd shade of purple, and there are pillow-creases on his face. He looks so young, so lost and confused that it makes Draco’s heart ache like an old injury. </p>
<p>‘Did you have a nightmare?’ Draco asks his nephew. Teddy’s hair only turns that colour after a bad dream.</p>
<p>Teddy huffs a disgruntled sigh and nods. He trudges through the kitchen and drapes himself over Draco, groaning miserably as he leans with his whole weight. </p>
<p>‘I dun like hairy caterpillars,’ he mutters, sounding cotton-fuzzy from sleep. ‘S’not nice. Not in my socks. They were in my <em>socks.</em>’</p>
<p>Draco laughs softly, setting down his quill. ‘I can imagine that would be unpleasant,’ he says. </p>
<p>‘S’ unpleasant,’ Teddy confirms. He props his chin on Draco’s shoulder and peers down at the letter. ‘You shouldn’t be up so late, Uncle Draco. Sleep’s important.’ </p>
<p>Draco has to close his eyes for a moment, and perhaps it is the lack of sleep or the sheer amount of stress that has been brutalising his system, but he is suddenly so bloody fucking <em>overwhelmed</em> with how much Teddy is like Harry, from the way he’s put his chin on Draco’s shoulder, down to the way his voice trips over certain syllables and slows on others. It hurts in the most beautiful of ways to know that there is a descendant of the House of Black who is loved so well that he has become an amalgamation of so many different people - good people, people who are brave and kind and compassionate and true. </p>
<p>‘I’ll just be up for a little while longer,’ Draco manages to say through the tightness in his throat.</p>
<p>Teddy makes a soft little humming noise in his throat. ‘Okay,’ he says, sounding significantly more lucid. ‘I’ll stay with you then. D’you want fancy tea or normal tea? I can put the kettle on.’</p>
<p>Draco smiles at his perfect, wonderful nephew. ‘Normal is fine,’ he says, and picks up his quill. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m not being cryptic, I promise. All will be revealed soon.<br/>My hc is that Astoria and Draco are probably the same kind of friends as Luna and Harry. Also, IQ84 is just so very weird and not in a fun way.<br/>Updates might be a little hectic as we enter the holiday season - please bear with me, thank you, love you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. this is not a tragedy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Draco’s fingertips trace in soothing circles at the nape of Harry’s neck, over the rough lines of old scars. ‘Harry,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve got you. You’re safe. I have you. I have you.’</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings: description of prison confinement, abuse and use of restraints. To avoid the Azkaban scene, skip ahead to ‘Take this abomination off him…’.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry presses his hand into the damp stone as he looks down through the narrow rectangle of his prison cell window.  There is a storm approaching on the grey horizon - a behemoth of dark, rolling clouds and purple thunder. The ocean throbs with the force of its fury. Showers of briny spray cascade into the air as the dark water crashes against the sharp rocks of the island. </p><p>He was weak and tired the first day he was taken into the DMLE’s custody. They did not let him sleep. Instead, they kept him up and asked him pointless, leading questions, probed his body with spells that were only just this side of legal, drained him of his magic until he was down on his last reserves, and then branded his neck permanently with a row of numbers and letters that would mark him as a criminal. It leaves him with a sick, ugly feeling, a feeling of being robbed of something precious that he can’t identify. </p><p>It has been nearly two weeks since then, and Harry is no longer weak. </p><p>Harry steps away from the window and sits, cross-legged, at the centre of his cell. The air is damp and cold, and everything smells like salt and mildew. The stones beneath him are hard and unforgiving, and there is a stain upon this island from the now-removed colony of Dementors. The chill threatens to sink into Harry’s bones, but he pushes it away with the furnace of his magical core. </p><p>He closes his eyes, fastening a portion of his consciousness to the soothing hum of Anchors and lets the rest of him unfold. He can feel the storm’s power grow stronger as it approaches - angry, sharp-toothed, sparking with wild, untamed magic, and so vastly different from deep, steady hum of ley lines. He tilts his head back as thunder booms, close enough to make the walls shake. </p><p>The storm howls as it strikes Azkaban and Harry drinks deep from its power. </p><p>When it finally passes, there is magic crackling beneath Harry’s veins so potent he could tear the whole fortress down around him with a flick of his fingers. He could wipe this Dementor-stained island clean off the face of the earth, turn its stones into sand and its walls into salt. </p><p>But he won’t. If he does, he’ll never stop running - and he’s done enough running for a hundred lifetimes. Besides, he has someone waiting for him. </p><p>(Some nights, even here, where the sweetest memories are drained from every last prisoner, Harry still dreams of a ballroom full of flowers. In those dreams, he dances in the circle of Draco’s arms, spinning and spinning and spinning until the world turns into a ring box filled with tiny chocolates. When he wakes after those dreams, Harry stands by his cell window and yearns for a warm smile and glittering, silver eyes.)</p><p>The grate on the door slides open with a loud clatter of steel against fortified iron. Dark eyes appear through the narrow slit.</p><p>‘Get your shoes on, Potter,’ orders Proudfoot. </p><p>Harry stares at his ex-colleague silently as he climbs to his feet. </p><p>‘<em>Potter</em>,’ the Auror says. ‘It’s urgent.’</p><p>Harry lets his lips curve upwards into a smile. He has received no trial, but they have all informed him that his sentence has already been decided. He is in here for life - unless he agrees to their terms. </p><p>He will not agree to their terms, of course, which means that he has all the time in the world. </p><p>Proudfoot’s irritation is tangible by the time Harry finishes lacing up his shoes. The Auror impatiently pushes open the door and waves in two of the prison guards, giving them instructions in sharp, quick commands. They lock his arms behind his back with the same magical cuffs, pinning his fingers in place with metal braces. Harry can guess that it is to prevent him from gesturing and performing wandless magic - and maybe also to serve as a petty method of psychological warfare. To make him feel helpless. Small. Powerless. A butterfly pinned within a display case.</p><p>However, as they fasten his fingers into place with metal braces, all he feels is a depthless, vacant kind of calm. </p><p> Proudfoot grabs Harry by the elbow. By now, every last soul in the DMLE knows that Harry can wandlessly Apparate, but they both play along as Proudfoot twists on his heel and pulls Harry into a jarring Side-Along. </p><p>They reappear in an unfamiliar office with small, rounded windows overlooking a neat little garden. Kingsley sits in a comfortable-looking, high-backed chair behind a hardwood desk, listening quietly as the man in front of him unleashes a vicious tirade upon him. Another figure leans against the wall by the window, spinning his wand idly over his long fingers. The three of them freeze as soon as Harry and Proudfoot appear.</p><p>Kingsley climbs quickly to his feet, his expression is openly horrified as he takes in the restraints bracketing Harry’s arms. The man who was ranting angrily at the Minister of Magic turns on his heel, his features finally swimming into focus. </p><p>‘<em>Draco</em>,’ Harry utters, his voice sounding strange and raspy from disuse. </p><p>He is dressed in indigo, his robes cut severely close to his figure, displaying his height and lean strength, the breadth of his shoulders and the sharp cut of his jaw. A silver starburst rests at the high collar of his robes, shimmering with protective magic. Harry remembers gifting the pendant to Draco last Christmas, wrapping it up in the silent <em>I love you</em> he was too afraid to voice. </p><p>‘You,’ Draco says, narrowing his eyes at Proudfoot. His eyes - <em>his eyes</em>… Harry has never seen anything burn so bright. ‘You will take that abomination off him. Right now.’</p><p>Proudfoot hesitates, his wand hand shifting slightly upwards into a duelling position.</p><p>‘Oh, for Merlin’s sake, man,’ Kingsley says. He waves his wand in a complicated motion, and the restraints fall away from Harry’s limbs in harmless strips of metal. </p><p>The momentum of being released sends Harry tipping forward towards the hard floorboards, and for a moment he thinks he’s probably going to break his nose again, but he finds himself colliding with Draco’s solid, warm chest. Harry’s Anchors chime pleasantly as Draco’s familiar, deepwater magic washes over him in a soothing tide. The roaring magic of the world and its ley lines and its storms recedes. His magic withdraws into the narrow frame of his flesh, blood and bone. </p><p>Draco’s fingertips trace in soothing circles at the nape of Harry’s neck, over the rough lines of old scars. ‘<em>Harry</em>,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve got you. You’re safe. I have you. <em>I have you.</em>’</p><p>Harry closes his eyes as his fingers clutch at the front of Draco’s robes. He is suddenly aware of the stiffness in his muscles, the cramping of his toes in his ill-fitting shoes. There are words he wants to say, promises he wishes to renew - but the exhaustion folds over him like a dark hood, and he sways, his voice dying in his throat. </p><p>‘It’s alright,’ Draco murmurs. ‘Save your strength, love.’</p><p>His knuckles brush tenderly over the rise of Harry’s cheekbone, and he tucks a lock of hair behind Harry’s ear carefully. Only now does Harry feel the ache of being apart, like the delayed pain of winter-numbed fingers coming back to life over an open fire. Even with the sunlight streaming in from the window, Harry can feel the ghost of Azkaban’s chill clinging to his clothes. He wants to go home, climb under the covers and sleep for days, safe within Draco’s embrace. He gratefully lets Draco ease him into a chair closer to the fireplace. </p><p>The man lounging by the window pushes off the wall, striding across the room until he comes to a stop at Draco’s side. He mutters something in Draco’s ear, making the latter’s expression twist into something pained. </p><p>‘I don’t know,’ Draco says out loud. ‘You should run some tests to check.’</p><p>The stranger’s gaze sweeps over Harry, and a deep groove appears beside his mouth. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a dancer preparing to leap into motion, and suddenly Harry recognizes him through the film of cosmetic spells.</p><p>‘May I?’ Blaise requests, lifting his wand and jerking his chin towards Harry.</p><p>Harry nods his consent.</p><p>Blaise casts a series of wordless diagnostic spells. Lights and runes flash over Harry at a dizzying rate, too fast for him to make much sense of them. As the diagnostic spells run their course, Blaise’s expression transitions from disgust to horror. His lips thin into a pale line and his eyes grow hard and flinty. He ends the final spell with a vicious swipe of his wand.</p><p>‘A <em>Desicco</em> curse?’ he exclaims, whirling upon Proudfoot. Even with the cosmetic charms, Blaise towers a good foot over the older wizard. ‘In what fucking realm of reality did you think <em>draining his magical core </em>was appropriate interrogation protocol?’ </p><p>‘Look, I wasn’t the one conducting the interview,’ Proudfoot says, raising his hands defensively. ‘But there’s no way Robards would have approved that sort of thing unless it was absolutely necessary.’</p><p>‘Oh, yes, <em>Robards</em>,’ Blaise grits out, and he is properly, truly furious. ‘A real champion of integrity, that one.’</p><p>Harry realises he’s never actually witnessed Blaise angry before. Frustrated, yes. Perhaps even worried. But never angry - and certainly never angry on Harry’s behalf. It feels reminiscent of being at the brunt end of Pansy’s aggressive affection, and his head spins from the whiplash of realising that Blaise Zabini might actually be his <em>friend</em>. </p><p>‘What the bloody hell is <em>that </em>supposed to mean?’ Proudfoot retorts. His face is beginning to turn a familiar shade of puce. </p><p>Kingsley runs a weary hand over his face and takes a deep breath. ‘You’d better sit, Ellis,’ he advises, gesturing towards the free seat opposite his desk. </p><p>Proudfoot stares at the Minister as though he’s grown a second head. </p><p>‘<em>Sit</em>,’ commands Blaise, his perfect teeth bared in a snarl. </p><p>Harry tears his gaze away from the befuddling scene unfolding before him and reaches out to grasp Draco’s wrist. ‘What’s happening?’ he asks. </p><p>Draco doesn’t quite smile - at least, not with his mouth - but his features lose some of their sharpness. He twists his hand around and encircles Harry’s wrist with his own. The gesture feels like coming home.</p><p>‘I’m not letting them take you away from me again,’ he says, softly enough that Harry has to strain to hear him. He slips his hand up and into Harry’s palm, grasping it tightly as he looks searchingly into Harry’s eyes. ‘Do you trust me to fix this?’</p><p>Harry would trust him with the whole world. He nods silently in reply. </p><p>A relieved smile flashes over Draco’s face - a devastating flash of teeth and the corners of his eyes crinkling just enough to make Harry’s heart flutter - before he schools his expression into a calm mask. He stands to his full height, brushing his hands down the front of his immaculate robes. This is neither the vibrant, jubilant creature that Harry knew in Belgium, nor the soft, midnight secret who lived within Harry’s bedroom walls, nor is it the cruel-faced boy with a mouthful of razor-sharp slurs and insults. This version of Draco is new to Harry - and yet there’s just <em>something</em> about the way he stalks back across the room that makes a wave of extremely ill-timed desire spread through Harry. </p><p>‘Auror Proudfoot,’ Draco says, folding his arms over his chest. ‘I suggest you listen to me very carefully, because apparently you are the only Auror on the force that Minister Shacklebolt trusts enough to handle this. Please do try not to cock this up any further than you have.’</p><p>Proudfoot makes to get up out of his chair, his mouth already open to protest, but he is swiftly silenced by a single look from Kingsley. </p><p>Draco arches a single eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with Proudfoot’s display. He gestures wordlessly with his wand at a heavy volume on the desk, sending it flying over to the Auror with a flick of his wrist. Proudfoot catches the book at the very last minute with an audible <em>whack </em>as the book impacts against the flat of his hand. Another flick of Draco’s wand, and book slams open, the pages fluttering as the volume flicks open.</p><p>‘The year is 1990,’ Draco says, each word articulated with perfect clarity, ‘and there are rumours of Lord Voldemort making a return. A Hogwarts professor goes missing while on summer holiday, and a few Aurors are sent to investigate. That same summer, Lucius Malfoy makes a staggering payment to one Selwyn Thestral Stables. The investigation is dropped a week later.’</p><p>Harry’s head snaps up. He recognises that name from long, mind-numbing nights chasing paper trails through endless records and receipts. </p><p>Proudfoot frowns heavily. ‘That’s a coincidence,’ he says. ‘And besides, how were we supposed to know about, er-’ he waves his hand in a broad stroke, ‘-the possession thing? Quirrell came back, said nothing was wrong. He seemed normal enough.’</p><p>‘Hm,’ Draco intones flatly. He flicks his wand and the pages of the ledger flip forwards, before snapping into place.</p><p>Proudfoot’s eyes dart between the contents of the volume, Draco’s hard expression, and Kingsley’s exhausted slump in his chair. His grip on the ledger tightens, the leather binding of the book squeaking in protest. Blaise paces back and forth behind Draco, a restless tiger in the corner of a cage. </p><p>‘The year is 1995,’ Draco continues, ‘and by now everyone knows Lord Voldemort has returned. Even if you don’t believe the Boy Who Lived, the great Albus Dumbledore has confirmed it. Beloved Cedric Diggory, Triwizard Tournament champion, is dead, and at the hands of a Death Eater, no less. Lucius Malfoy makes another enormous payment to Selwyn Thestral Stables. A week later, the Ministry sends Dolores Umbridge to terrorise Hogwarts in a long crusade that ends in an attempted arrest of Professor Dumbledore.’</p><p>‘Oh, come <em>on,</em>’ Proudfoot groans. ‘You can’t say what I think you’re saying. That’s got to be a coincidence.’</p><p>Draco’s smile is the bite of a midwinter wind. ‘Another coincidence?’ he says, his voice soft and sweetly mocking. ‘Ah, of course. I’m sure you’re right, Auror Proudfoot.’</p><p>Blaise’s shoes click deafeningly against the wooden floorboards as he paces. Kingsley stands up from his desk, heading to the bar at the back of his study. He pours himself two fingers of golden liquor, downing it almost instantly, his throat clicking audibly. </p><p><em>Swish. Flick. </em>More pages turn.</p><p>‘The year is 1997,’ continues Draco. ‘The Ministry belongs to Voldemort. Lucius Malfoy makes an enormous payment to Selwyn Thestral Stables. Snatchers suddenly have money for food, clothing, buildings, potions. There is plenty of reward money available. But, strangely enough, at the war trials, nobody can seem to figure out who funded their activities.’</p><p>Proudfoot is silent. </p><p>Kingsley pours himself another glass and finishes this one in barely a blink of an eye. <em>Click, click, click, </em>go Blaise’s shoes. </p><p>‘Now this,’ says Draco, twisting his wrist in a movement akin to a conductor’s flourish, ‘is my favourite part.’</p><p>The ledger flicks forward a few pages. Proudfoot’s jaw twitches as he adjusts his grip on the volume, sitting up now in the chair. His brow is furrowed all the way up to his hairline.</p><p>‘Lucius Malfoy receives parole,’ Draco says, a bitter expression flitting over his face, ‘and he is released upon wizarding society once more. Before he disappears into the wilderness of Romania and eventually acquaints himself with a group of Neo-Death Eaters in Hungary, he arranges for twelve separate payments to be made from the Malfoy accounts to Selwyn Thestral Stables.’</p><p>An unpleasant tingling spreads from the base of Harry’s spine, eating into his stomach. He clenches his fists and unclenches them. </p><p>‘One week after each payment made by Lucius to Selwyn Thestral Stables,’ Draco says, ‘an order of ingredients are imported into England from an East Asian apothecary, delivered to Selwyn Thestral Stables.’ He tucks his wand away into his sleeve. ‘The ingredients seem harmless at first glance, but when all twelve orders are combined, it appears that someone has plans to brew fuel for Chimera’s Flame.’</p><p>Proudfoot sets the ledger down on the desk, his gaze transfixed on the numbers printed upon its pages. ‘Chimera’s Flame,’ he repeats, barely loud enough for Harry to hear him over the crackle of the fireplace. ‘That’s - that’s what they used in the Diagon bombing.’</p><p>‘Oh, excellent,’ Draco says with a curt smile. ‘I’m so glad you’ve been paying attention.’</p><p>From his seat, Harry watches him, beautiful and untouchable as a fallen angel. Draco’s pale fingers draw a stark contrast against the dark wood as he braces his palms against the edge of Kingsley’s desk and leans back against it, without a care for the fact that it belongs to the Minister of Magic himself, and stretches his long legs out before him, crossing them delicately at the ankles. His boots are polished to a shine. He looks like a weapon, and Harry suddenly remembers the quicksilver way Draco used to move when he duelled, and wonders if perhaps in another universe Draco would have made a rather intimidating Auror.</p><p>‘Shall I tell you something else I noticed in that ledger there?’ Draco asks Proudfoot. ‘Each of those twelve payments perfectly match the cost of ingredients delivered to Selwyn Thestral - all save one. A payment made precisely one week before the Diagon Incident. And isn’t it funny,’ he adds, soft and dangerous like a knife kissing a bared throat, ‘that that last payment is probably large enough to buy a house in Surrey? Maybe, say, one like the house Robards bought that same year?’</p><p>‘You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying,’ Proudfoot growls. He stands up in a flurry of movement, the legs of the chair skittering back against the bare floorboards. ‘Robards wouldn’t do something like this.’</p><p>Blaise ceases his pacing, turning around on his heel as he barks out a harsh laugh. ‘Oh, of course not,’ he scoffs. ‘Why did Robards order a sweep of Diagon Alley, Proudfoot? Why not just evacuate the area? And why assign Potter to patrol the epicentre of the explosion?’</p><p>Harry recalls the chalky smell of crumbling brick and the overlapping stench of his own coagulating blood. He remembers the dark, and the horrible thought that he might never see his loved ones again, that he would die the same way he did in the Forbidden Forest - alone, and scared. </p><p>Harry clasps his hands together in his lap, brushing his thumb over the fading white letters on the back of his hand. I must not tell lies. He thinks about the tight enclosure of the cupboard under the stairs and the persistent pangs of hunger. He thinks about the cold hatred he always felt exuding from Professor Snape, unearned and undeserved. </p><p>Maybe Robards did it for the money. </p><p>Or maybe Robards was just like the rest of the people who saw something in Harry that needed to be stamped out, eviscerated, destroyed, beaten down and buried under rubble. After all, Robards was putting Harry on suicide missions long before Lucius ever got out on parole. </p><p>Harry watches and waits as the pieces of the puzzle come clicking together for Proudfoot. The Auror’s face pales, and his outrage and confusion turn slowly into guilt.</p><p>He shakes his head once, then twice, and then looks at Harry pleadingly. ‘Merlin’s beard,’ he utters. ‘Potter, I - I am truly sorry. I had no idea.’</p><p><em>It’s fine</em> lives on Harry’s lips, but it isn’t fine, it’s so very far from being fucking fine.</p><p>Harry feels a rush of something rising up within him, something not quite like anger, but deeper than it, darker than it. As dark as a train compartment, as violent as the snap of cartilage breaking, dark as an angry curse scribbled into the margins of an old textbook - <em>For Enemies.</em></p><p>In a different world, travelling down a different path of time where the same deck of cards is stacked in a different array, he thinks he might have sought retribution instead of redemption. <em>For Enemies</em>. In a different world, Harry follows that rising darkness and does something irredeemable, something unforgivable. <em>For Enemies. </em>In that world, he uses a curse instead of a disarming spell, and Draco wears an extra scar beneath his robes.</p><p>And just as suddenly as it came, the darkness is gone - swept away with tide, resting beneath the seabed.</p><p>Harry drums his fingers against the tops of his knuckles. His mouth is a sandpaper-dry, and he’s not entirely sure how he should respond to Proudfoot - or if he could find the mental energy to deliver it. </p><p>Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait to find out, because Draco clears his throat loudly, drawing all the attention to him. </p><p>‘Minister,’ Draco says crisply. ‘I believe we had an agreement?’ He dips his head pointedly towards Harry.</p><p>Kingsley looks deeply annoyed at being ordered around by a Malfoy, of all people, but he sets his now-empty glass down on the desk and pulls his wand from his pocket. ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘Please come here, Harry.’</p><p>Harry glances at Draco, who nods once. </p><p>Harry pushes himself up out of his chair and crosses the study. Kingsley walks around the broad girth of his desk and comes to stand facing Harry, placing his considerable bulk in front of Proudfoot’s frozen figure. He presses the tip of his wand against Harry’s neck, over the tattoo that marks him as a prisoner of Azkaban. A sensation like trickling icewater spreads through Harry’s skin, leaving behind gooseflesh.</p><p>Harry brings up his hand to press against his bare neck. Even without the aid of a mirror, he knows that the tattoo is gone. Relief shudders through him. </p><p>‘Your record will be clear of all charges,’ Kingsley says, lowering his wand. ‘You are free to go. The DMLE will leave you in peace. And, Harry, by my wife’s life, I swear I will see this investigation to the end. This ends here.’ </p><p>Something in Kingsley’s face softens, and in his eyes Harry sees a heart-breaking combination of sadness, betrayal, and anxiety. It is the look of a man who has just been shown the rotten core of all that he once believed in. He finds that he has no anger for Kingsley - not even disappointment. He finds, in that bruise-tender place within his heart, nothing but gentle sympathy and pity. </p><p>He smiles up at his old friend and pats him twice on the arm. ‘Good luck, Kingsley,’ Harry says. ‘You’ll need it.’</p><p>Kingsley responds with a grimace. ‘Merlin, I really do,’ he agrees.</p><p>A familiar weight presses against the small of Harry’s back. ‘Come on,’ murmurs Draco, just beside Harry’s right ear. ‘Blaise will take care of the rest. Let’s go home.’</p><p>-</p><p>Harry sleeps for two days after his release. He dreams of flowers and stars, and a circle of trees and a platform painted all in white, and then, towards the end, tall wildflowers swaying in the breeze and the smell of damp soil. When he finally wakes, it is to Draco smiling fondly at him, backlit by a halo of afternoon sunlight.</p><p>Harry reaches out for him, still fuzzy as he comes slowly awake, and Draco sets aside his book to thread their fingers together. </p><p>‘That’s three times now you’ve saved my life,’ Harry tells Draco, only a little bit awestruck. </p><p>‘You’ve saved mine hundreds of times,’ Draco replies. He shifts further down the bed and lies down next to Harry. The light dips him in purest gold, lavishing its gifts on him with a love that feels as reckless as the love that burns in Harry’s chest. ‘Maybe more, I don’t know,’ Draco says. ‘I’ve stopped counting.’</p><p>The window is slightly ajar, allowing a soft breeze to sneak in through the curtains. Tufts of cream-white clouds dust over the cornflower sky. There is a bird singing in the garden, and the sound of the city is a whisper beyond the walls and wards of Grimmauld Place. The air smells faintly of Draco’s citrusy shampoo and summer flowers, and wet grass. The cruel chill of Azkaban seems nothing but a distant dream. </p><p>There is a parliament of owls waiting beyond the wards of Grimmauld Place. Harry can feel the impatient crackle of the Floo about to flare to life. The world will descend upon them with all of its chaos soon enough - but for now all Harry wants to do is lie here in the sweet pool of Draco’s magic and know that this delight of a man has moved heaven and earth for him - to know that he is so loved. </p><p>Harry sighs and curves closer into Draco. </p><p>Draco hums softly and brushes his knuckles over Harry’s cheekbone. ‘Shall I ask it again?’ he murmurs.</p><p>Harry leans into his touch. ‘If you like.’</p><p>Draco’s thumb is a butterfly’s kiss on Harry’s cheek. He presses his lips to Harry’s forehead, feather-light and silk-soft, and asks for a forever-everything-happy-ending.</p><p>To which, of course, Harry says yes. </p><p>-</p><p>This time, they get to celebrate their engagement properly, with all their friends and a bottle of champagne. It’s rather tame in comparison to the jaunts of their youth. Pansy doesn’t yell at anyone, and Ginny doesn’t tackle Harry even once. </p><p>Everyone heads home at around ten, and Kreacher chases them out of the dining room before Harry and Draco can make an attempt at cleaning up. They end up sitting together on the sofa in front of the fire, leaning against each other as the night deepens.</p><p>Draco pulls Harry’s hand into his own, turning it over in his lap until Harry’s palm faces the ceiling. The ring catches the full warmth of the fire, turning brilliant amber. Draco’s fingertips trace the cool metal, then they dance up over the raised callouses within the cup of Harry’s palm, up further, until the pads of his fingers rest delicately over the overlapping spheres of Harry’s tattoos. Draco tilts his face up to meet Harry’s.</p><p>His lips taste like champagne and after-dinner chocolates.</p><p>‘Will you take me to bed?’ Draco asks.</p><p>Harry stills. They haven’t done anything beyond a bit of heavy petting and a lot of kissing, mostly due to how fragile Draco’s body has been following the kidnapping - and with the added chaos of Harry’s arrest and subsequent release, Harry is afraid that Draco’s managed to exacerbate his condition with lack of sleep and compounded stress. </p><p>Harry pulls away so he can study Draco’s face. ‘Yeah?’ he asks. ‘You’re sure?’</p><p>Draco laughs softly, and sighs. ‘It’s fine, Harry,’ he says. His fingers draw mindless patterns over Harry’s skin. ‘My Healer said I was fully recovered. You won’t hurt me. <em>Take me to bed.</em>’</p><p>So Harry does.</p><p>-</p><p>It is the witching hour, and Draco looks drunk. His eyes are smudged and soft like headlights shining through a rain-damp windshield. A blush spreads from his cheeks, down to his collarbones and over his chest. Harry traces his hand down it, fascinated and a little bit possessive.</p><p>‘Harry?’ he murmurs, lifting his head up from the pillow. </p><p>Harry presses a kiss against Draco’s shoulder. There is a freckle there, at the rise where his clavicle meets his arm. ‘Yes?’ he replies.</p><p>‘If I tell you something,’ Draco says softly, ‘will you promise not to laugh?’</p><p>‘Alright,’ Harry agrees easily. He props himself up with one arm, fighting against the treacle-sweet pull of post-coital sleepiness. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’</p><p>Draco rolls over onto his back. His fringe falls away from his forehead, revealing the nearly-elfin planes of his face and the silver of his eyes. He frowns deeply as he looks up at Harry.</p><p>‘Right,’ he says, tucking his chin almost imperceptibly, as though readying himself. ‘So. I had this bizarre and clearly unfounded belief that you would be entirely inexperienced. I had myself entirely convinced that I would have to show you where everything was.’</p><p>Harry scrunches up his face in an exaggerated performance of confusion. ‘I mean, you did?’ he says. ‘Who keeps their lube in the same box as their emergency sewing kit anyways?’</p><p>Draco rewards his cheek with a smack against his upper arm. Even with Draco lying flat on his back and with no leverage, his hand lands on Harry’s arm with a solid <em>thwack.</em></p><p>Harry laughs even as he grabs Draco’s wrist and pins it against his chest. ‘I’m kidding,’ he grins. ‘I know what you meant. I just don’t know if it’s appropriate to talk about it or if it would make you uncomfortable to hear-’</p><p>Draco rolls his eyes. ‘I’m an adult,’ he scoffs. ‘I can talk about our previous partners without having a mental breakdown.’ </p><p>He tilts his body towards Harry’s, and instinctively, Harry tucks his hand at the curve of Draco’s waist and pulls him until they are pressed close against each other. Draco’s scent is imprinted on Harry’s skin - and his sheets, his pillows, his whole life. </p><p>‘Well?’ prompts Draco.</p><p>Harry hesitates for a moment. He tucks a lock of hair behind Draco’s ear, marvelling at the silken softness of those white-blond locks. Everything about Draco is a wonder, a mystery - everything from his strange, feral beauty to the scattering of freckles and moles over his body, to the minute number of scars and wrinkles he’s collected over the years. They are no longer young men, and life has left its mark on both of them.</p><p>‘It was a lot of previous partners,’ Harry says at last, quietly. He isn’t ashamed of it, but he isn’t proud of it either. ‘Hermione disapproved. It wasn’t - it wasn’t exactly healthy. Not that promiscuity is bad in and of itself - it’s just that I was using it as a way to self-destruct. But, well.’ Harry shrugs. ‘I experimented a lot.’</p><p>Draco lifts his head, and with practiced fluidity, Harry slots his arm beneath. Draco’s breath ghosts Harry’s collarbone.</p><p>‘This is a lot to process,’ he says at last. </p><p>‘That you’re not my first?’ Harry frowns.</p><p>‘Nor are you mine,’ Draco dismisses. </p><p>That, at least, Harry knows to be true. There were a number of nameless lovers who drifted in and out of Draco’s life - nobody permanent, of course, and plenty of them were Muggles who came upon him in the bar he worked or at the coffee shops he frequented. Harry never quite understood back then why Draco never found someone permanent. </p><p>He understands now, of course, that there was never anyone else. That Draco never <em>wanted</em> anybody else.</p><p>Draco turns his cheek so that it rests against Harry’s arm. His eyes are aglow with their own light, slivers of captured moonlight to appease the sky for the waxing of the moon. ‘I’m just surprised by the fact that, out of the two of us,’ Draco says, gesturing between their bodies with his hand, ‘<em>you</em> are the one who is exceptionally gifted at this.’</p><p>Harry’s not entirely sure <em>that’s </em>true, but he’ll take a compliment if he’s handed one on such a delightful platter. </p><p>However, Harry is also a direct descendant of James Potter, twat extraordinaire, and incredibly incapable of levity in any situation, so he says: ‘It’s not a competition, Draco. It’s a <em>collaboration</em>.’ </p><p>Draco gawps at him. ‘Oi,’ he protests, pinching Harry’s arm. ‘You speccy git, you <em>promised.</em>’</p><p>‘Technically,’ says Harry, completely deadpan, ‘I’m not laughing.’</p><p>Draco groans loudly and buries his face in Harry’s chest. ‘You are <em>such</em> a smarmy little prick,’ he complains.</p><p>Harry huffs with quiet laughter. He eases his hand down to brace Draco’s lower back, feeling the muscles spasming slightly beneath his touch. He digs his thumb in slightly in an attempt to ease out the knots.  </p><p>Draco groans again. ‘Ugh,’ he whines. ‘The next time I ask you to pound my arse into next Sunday, kindly remind me that I am no longer a flexible little twink.’</p><p>Harry kisses the top of Draco’s head affectionately. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Always thought you were too tall to qualify as a twink.’ </p><p>Draco growls and shoves ineffectively at Harry’s chest. ‘I’m going to hex you a new nose,’ he threatens, but Harry only pulls him close, and he laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Not included in this chapter: Daphne personally hunting down the Aurors responsible for performing the core-draining curse on Harry and unleashing all her fury on them.<br/>P.S. I thought I was going to do full-on explicit smut but then I started reading these chapters out loud to my sister and I just… I cannot. -_- I can’t.<br/>NEARLY DONE NOW - Thank you for sticking with this story and with me. The chaos is finally dying down a bit on my end, thankfully.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. everything-forever-happy-ending</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An epilogue consisting of: a conversation between two Hogwarts professors, a compromise, a wedding, and a honeymoon.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The wind sounds like the crashing of waves as it sweeps through the treetops. Harry can feel the beginnings of an early autumn in the cold caress on his cheeks. It is a welcome relief after the oppressive heat of the summer. He rests his head against the cushioned back of the deck chair and exhales long and slow. </p><p>‘D’you want another butterbeer?’ Neville calls, fishing another bottle from the cooler. Above him, a plant that vaguely resembles an indigo-leafed weeping willow drapes its long strands over his broad shoulders. Neville bats the overly affectionate plant away with his free hand, grinning with boyish joy. </p><p><em>He loves his plants far too fucking much</em>, Harry thinks.</p><p>Harry shakes his head in response to Neville’s question. His now-empty bottle is still collecting moisture on the low table sat between their respective chairs, and he is already pleasantly buzzed from the sugar and low alcohol content. He lifts his feet up and crosses his legs, finding a more comfortable position on the padded seat. </p><p>Neville drops into his deck chair with a happy sigh. He stretches out his long legs in front of him, digging his toes into the damp soil. ‘I love my garden,’ he announces, and takes a long swig of his butterbeer.</p><p>While it can’t hold a candle to his greenhouses at Hogwarts, Neville’s back garden holds an impressive array of magical and Muggle plants, with a meandering stone path that works its way from the conservatory at the back of the house down to the stream that separates Neville’s property from the forest. </p><p>‘Nerd,’ Harry replies, and ducks quickly as Neville spells the bottle cap at his head. </p><p>Neville’s family were never truly quite as well-off as the Malfoys or the Blacks, but they were comfortable enough to buy an Unplottable space of land in Wales where neither the National Trust nor the seasonal tourists would stumble across them. It’s a lovely little cottage for a young couple, but Ginny assures Harry that it’s fitted with the right charms if it ever needs space for more - <em>but that’s years away, I’m hardly ready to pop out any Weasley-Longbottoms. </em></p><p>‘When are you headed to Brussels, then?’ Neville asks, turning towards Harry. </p><p>‘Tuesday next,’ Harry replies. He spots a tiny dandelion spore on his jeans. He picks it off carefully and blows it off the tip of his finger. ‘I think we’re going to spend maybe a week in Brussels sorting out some stuff and then we’ll head to Ostend to catch the last of the summer.’</p><p>Neville nods thoughtfully. ‘That sounds like a treat,’ he says. He takes another drink from his bottle and sets it on the ground next to his chair. He leans back fully, folding his arms loosely over his chest. ‘So, have you set a date for the wedding yet? I’ve got to calendar it into our schedule and make sure that Gin has the week off.’</p><p>Harry laughs. ‘Christ, no.’ He runs his thumb over the band on his finger. He’s not quite accustomed to the weight of it yet, nor the way it startles him the morning with how cold it is. He’s yet to find a suitable ring for Draco, but Draco says there’s plenty of time for that. ‘We haven’t even settled on a country for the wedding yet,’ Harry admits, shaking his head. </p><p>‘Oh?’ Neville says, his brow furrowing. ‘You’re not aiming to move to Belgium with Malfoy?’</p><p>Harry whistles through his teeth. He hasn’t really considered that option yet. ‘I don’t know, mate,’ he says. ‘It’s not an easy commute, is it?’</p><p>‘Commute?’ Neville repeats, sounding surprised. </p><p>‘Yeah,’ Harry says. ‘I can Apparate from Brussels to, er, maybe the opposite side of the Forbidden Forest, and that would be a pretty great way to stick it to the Ministry after the whole arrest shitshow, but it’s hardly ideal if I’ve got to be in the Great Hall before breakfast starts every morning, y’know?’ </p><p>Neville tilts his head. ‘You mean,’ he says slowly, levelling an indecipherable look at Harry, ‘commute to Hogwarts.’</p><p>‘Ye-es?’ Harry replies, throwing his friend a confused look. ‘Where else?’</p><p>‘Oh,’ says Neville. ‘Well. I just thought maybe, with everything that happened-’ He sighs heavily, cutting himself off with a broad sweep of his hand. ‘I thought maybe you’d want to get as far away from England as possible. And, honestly, if you did - I wouldn’t blame you.’</p><p>Harry uncrosses his legs and lowers his feet to the ground. He presses his palms against the arms of the deckchair, drumming his fingers against the painted wood. ‘I’m not abandoning my students, Nev,’ he says seriously. ‘And I’m not moving away from all my family and friends. I won’t give anything up. Not anymore.’ </p><p>A broad, unguarded smile breaks over Neville’s face. ‘Oh, <em>thank Merlin</em>,’ he utters. ‘McGonagall will be relieved. She’s convinced there’s still a curse on the position and you’re the only immune to it.’</p><p>‘Probably am,’ Harry says with a shrug. ‘Horcrux privileges, right?’</p><p>Neville plucks the butterbeer bottle and raises it up in a toast. ‘Horcrux privileges,’ he salutes, and downs half of the bottle.</p><p>They sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the stream roll by. There are butterflies flitting over the sparkling water, a whole flock of them dancing over the water’s edge and skipping over shining pebbles. The wind picks up, and the treetops bend and dance in time. The sky is a feather-brushed array of brilliant blue, and the clouds are beginning to take on a golden hue as the afternoon grows old. </p><p>‘Actually, Nev,’ Harry says, scratching the back of his neck. ‘I need some advice. Relationship advice.’</p><p>‘Yeah, sure,’ Neville says.</p><p>Harry presses his heels into the soil. It is soft, still, from the summer rains and the warm, humid months. The earth here wraps around deep wells of old, quiet power. All the restlessness that lives in Harry grows quiet. </p><p>He takes a breath and releases it slowly through his nose. ‘How do you and Ginny figure out the long-distance thing?’ he asks.</p><p>Neville chuckles. ‘Gosh, Harry,’ he says, slapping his hands down on the tops of his thighs. ‘Do you really want my advice on how to write saucy letters to your hot new fiancé?’</p><p>‘I’ll take you off the groomsmen list,’ Harry frowns, pointing a threatening finger at Neville's face, ‘see if I don’t.’</p><p>‘You’d never,’ says Neville with a shit-eating grin.</p><p>Harry glares at Neville. ‘You’re right, I wouldn’t,’ he admits reluctantly. ‘But I will hide all the beer and serve <em>only </em>peach Bellinis.’</p><p>Neville presses a palm over his heart and shakes his head despairingly. ‘You’re a cruel man, Harry.’</p><p>Harry flips him the bird. </p><p>‘Alright, but in all seriousness,’ Neville says, waving his hand, ‘you make it work, actually, because you want it to work. You make it work because you’d rather have them in your life than not at all, and you both know that eventually your lives will curve back into the same place, because sometimes the universe <em>does </em>actually work in your favour. In the meantime, though,’ he adds, tilting his head slightly, ‘you just get really good at writing letters. Though as far as I can tell, you two have that down to an art form, so you really shouldn’t be worried.’</p><p>Harry arches his eyebrows as he lets Neville’s words digest. ‘That was actually quite solid advice,’ he remarks. ‘I’m very proud of you.’</p><p>Neville leans easily across the space between them and bumps his knuckles into Harry’s shoulder playfully. ‘Aw, piss off, you old sap,’ he says fondly. ‘Oh, speaking of significant others,’ he says, and jerks his chin towards the forest.</p><p>Harry turns in time to catch the sight of Ginny flying in over the treetops, backlit by the low sun. She tucks her body down flat against her broomstick and dives down, brushing her toes briefly over the surface of the stream, before banking up sharply. She does a barrel roll over the geraniums, laughing triumphantly, and then practically flings herself off her broom. She hits the ground running, and Neville lifts himself up out of his chair, arms open wide just as she charges straight at him.</p><p>‘We signed Hilda today!’ she crows, pumping her fists into the air. </p><p>‘Aw, congrats,’ says Harry. He recalls the Ravenclaw Beater from last year’s House Cup. He’s never seen anyone get so damn inventive with a Bludger. If Ginny’s team have managed to sign on Hilda Spindle, he pities the poor souls unfortunate enough to play against the Harpies. </p><p>Ginny extracts herself from her husband’s grasp. She throws Harry a mock salute. ‘Hiya, Harry. Still here?’</p><p>‘Yeah,’ Harry says. He gets up, brushing off his jeans carefully. ‘Draco’s got a Slytherin reunion at some vegan restaurant in Soho.’</p><p>‘<em>Oh</em>.’ Ginny says, wrinkling her nose in a way that means, <em>that’s disgusting</em>.</p><p>‘Hey,’ says Neville in protest, grabbing his wife’s arm. ‘Plant-based diets are an extremely important component to building a sustainable future.’</p><p>Harry throws him a look, mouthing, <em>sustainable future?</em> </p><p>Neville flips him off good-naturedly.</p><p>‘Babe, your plant-based food is amazing,’ Ginny says, giving Neville’s arm a mollifying pat. ‘It’s Soho that I don’t trust. Harry, we’re doing Taco Tuesday, if you want to stay for dinner?’</p><p>Harry grins. He loves Taco Tuesday.</p><p>‘Yeah, sure,’ he says. He pulls out his mobile phone from his back pocket and types in the passcode to unlock it. ‘I’ll shoot Draco a text, let him know I’ll be late.’</p><p>‘Aw, bless. Gin, look,’ Neville says, nudging his wife with an elbow. ‘Harry’s being <em>domestic.</em>’</p><p>Harry swaps over to typing with one hand, jabbing his finger in what he thinks is the general direction of Neville’s smug mug. ‘Peach fucking Bellinis, Nev.’</p><p>Ginny snorts. She swings her broomstick up and over, resting the metal hilt of it against her shoulder. ‘Right,’ she says, shaking her head in mock despair. ‘If you lads are quite done with your little lover’s spat, would you like to head in and get the food started while I go have my shower?’</p><p>Neville ducks down to give Ginny a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘I’m on it, babe,’ he promises. He winks once at Harry before heading back into the house through the conservatory. </p><p>Ginny clucks her tongue and shakes her head as she watches him go. She looks so much like Molly that it makes Harry’s heart twist out of shape. He wonders if there would be anyone alive who could tell him if he looked like his father - or his mother, even. </p><p>‘Right!’ says Ginny, twisting her torso to face Harry. ‘If you’re using the nubile phone-’</p><p>‘<em>Mobile </em>phone,’ corrects Harry, wondering how Ginny’s managed to make it through this many years with Hermione as her sister-in-law with this sort of vocabulary.</p><p>‘Whatever,’ she says, rolling her eyes. She points at the phone in Harry’s palm. ‘On the wotsit. Tell Draco there’s plenty of food left for him if he wants to escape the Slytherins or Soho.’</p><p>‘Thanks Gin,’ Harry says, smiling at her. ‘I will.’ He lifts the phone up and tilts the glowing screen in her direction. </p><p>‘Ew, no thanks,’ she laughs. ‘Keep your saucy letters to yourself, Harry Potter.’ </p><p>‘What is it with you and Neville and <em>saucy letters</em>?’ Harry laughs, shoving her away with his free hand.</p><p>Ginny whacks him with the bristly end of her broom, which, in Harry’s opinion, is a damn waste of perfectly good equipment. But, well. When you’re sponsored by the top broom-makers in the continent, you could probably spare to waste one or two expensive brooms on pummelling your ex-boyfriend on your back porch. </p><p>-</p><p>They figure out the long-distance thing. </p><p>Harry gets a house in the Highlands, on the other side of the Forbidden Forest, the core of the cottage placed squarely over thrumming ley lines. Some mornings he wakes to Draco lying next to him, his sharp features still soft in slumber, and he has enough time before breakfast to make them both coffees. Other mornings, he wakes to a book of poetry laid open on the pillowcase, a page marked with a sprig of dried lavender.</p><p>He loves the one by John Donne the best - </p><p><em>Though I must go, endure not yet</em><br/><em>A breach but an expansion,</em><br/><em>Like gold to airy thinness beat</em>.</p><p>Harry creates a private loop between his hearth and Draco’s. It isn’t the first time that someone has attempted an International Floo, and Harry’s work builds on years and years of experience, but in the end, he is the first one who succeeds in setting up. This way, they don’t have to wait for an international portkey or to take the Eurostar. On school holidays, Harry goes the other way, and spends his time at Draco’s flat above the chocolaterie pretending he’s living life as a man of leisure.</p><p>(He hands the blueprints for the International Floo over to the Unspeakables and warns them that the Department of Mysteries will have precisely one year of exclusive use before he releases it to the public.)</p><p>Harry hopes they end up in Scotland, though. </p><p>He loves this house. It isn’t quite Grimmauld Place (which he’s now handed over to Teddy, who really should have been the rightful heir to the Black fortune all along) and it isn’t quite Godric’s Hollow either, but it’s <em>home</em>. </p><p>There is a study with large bay windows to let in plenty of natural light, and a living room stuffed full of books, and a bathroom with plenty of shelf space for fancy hair potions and a clawed bathtub that is charmed to produce lavender-scented bubbles, and a table in the conservatory where Harry and Draco can have breakfast on the weekends with the French windows open (if it’s warm enough), and so very many roses and violets and perennials in the garden, and a lemon tree with leaves that whisper in the wind - a space created in Harry’s world, just for Draco. <em>Always for Draco.</em> </p><p>Christmas holidays finally come around and instead of going to Brussels, they decide to stay in Scotland. Teddy helps them put up a tree in the living room and Victoire comes to spend a week with the three of them, armed with a basket of extremely tacky gifts. Teddy and Victoire share Harry’s guest room, which Draco is a bit suspicious about until Victoire calmly reassures him that, <em>no, Uncle Draco, I’m not going to besmirch your nephew’s virtue. </em></p><p>Harry thinks it’s all positively hilarious.</p><p>And then suddenly it’s mid-January and Draco is still there in the morning, curled up beneath the covers with his arm flung over his eyes, and Harry asks him why he hasn’t gone home yet, to which Draco replies, <em>darling, I am home</em>, and that’s rather the end of the whole long-distance thing, it seems.</p><p>-</p><p>To Molly’s great delight, Draco doesn’t want a winter wedding.</p><p>They get married on a brisk, Scottish summer’s day roughly one year after their engagement, in the spacious gardens of their home.</p><p>Teddy cries so hard he nearly drops the rings, but Hugo lunges for them in time and gets mud all over his trousers. Rose spells Hugo’s suit clean and then kindly hands Teddy a tissue to wipe his face with - <em>don’t be dramatic, Edward, no harm done</em>. </p><p>Blaise, to his great dismay, catches the bouquet - but only because Draco lobs it at his head with the speed and accuracy befitting an ex-Seeker.</p><p>‘He has to take me to dinner first!’ shouts Charlie from the bar, and Blaise trips over his own feet, careening into a nearby waiter and getting red wine all over his expensive suit.</p><p>After the vows are said and the binding is done, they go down to the small orchard Harry planted for Draco, where a long row of tables and benches have been shoved together between the line of cherry trees and lemon trees. The wedding cake towers at the centre of the impressive spread of food and sparkling wine - <em>sponge with lemon and rosemary icing and lemon cream filling </em>- all courtesy of Molly’s powerhouse presence in the kitchen. </p><p>(Molly was a bit miffed that they didn’t want to hold the wedding at the Burrow at first, of course - <em>all my children get married here, Harry, it’s tradition </em>- until Harry appeased her by appointing her head caterer.)</p><p>Halfway through dinner, Hagrid gets up to give a speech. He has to stoop a little in order to avoid tangling his hat with the fairy lights strung between the trees. There are plenty of encouraging whoops and applause as Hagrid straightens his horrendous tie and gives everyone a nervous little smile. He’s gotten a few grey hairs over the years, but nothing else about him has changed - not even his terrible taste in clothing. </p><p>‘When I first saw Harry,’ he says, clutching at his jug-sized serving of beer, ‘he was only a tiny little thing. I knew then that he needed a lot of love to grow big and strong, so I did my very best to love him as much as I could. And though Harry’s still just a wee thing -’</p><p>Harry makes a loud noise of protest because while he might not be very tall, he’s also certainly not a <em>wee thing</em>.</p><p>‘Sorry Harry,’ Hagrid says, very earnestly. ‘You really aren’t very tall, are you? Well, anyhow, you <em>are</em> strong, and I’m so proud of what you’ve become and all the good you’ve done. Now then, Malfoy, you weren’t always the nicest lad -’</p><p>Draco accepts this graciously with a shrug.</p><p>‘- but you’ve turned out just fine,’ Hagrid continues, dabbing at his eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. ‘Just fine. You’ve done a good job caring for him and protecting him when he deserves protecting, and I can tell you love him just as much as I do. Ain’t a lot of people in Harry’s life I would trust, but I would trust you.’</p><p>Harry notices, then, that Draco has gone very still. His hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. For a moment, Harry is worried that Hagrid’s broken some sort of archaic wizarding tradition or insulted Draco in some manner, but then Draco vaults off the bench and goes running towards Hagrid, tackling him in what looks like a bone-crushing hug. </p><p>Draco pulls away, his eyes overly bright. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘<em>Thank you.</em>’</p><p>‘Well,’ says Hagrid, looking pleasantly surprised. ‘That’s nice of you to say.’ </p><p>Harry swore he wasn’t going to cry at his own sodding wedding, but now Hermione is handing him a tissue and Ron is thumping his back and saying, <em>there, there</em>, like he’s a toddler having a bit of a wobbly. </p><p>The night sky shifts from dark cobalt to midnight blue. Someone charms Draco’s wireless to play music for dancing, and Harry extends the tiling of the back porch out into the garden, so nobody trips on a stray root or tumbles into a molehill. Andromeda and Narcissa do a very impressive polka for two elderly witches cavorting around a garden. </p><p>Hermione isn’t much of a dancer, normally, but this is the first wedding she’s attended where she doesn’t have to mind her children, so she gets <em>exuberantly </em>drunk. She manhandles Draco away from Harry mid-waltz - <em>he was my friend first, Harry, and I’ve got bridesmaid rights. </em>Despite the amount of champagne she’s consumed, she is actually a rather good dancer when she’s not paired up with Ron’s shoddy footwork. </p><p>‘Imagine if they’d got along in school,’ Ron says to Harry, nodding at the two of them whirling around the dance floor.</p><p>Draco spins Hermione around with a clever flick of the wrist, and she ducks under his arm, breathless from joyous laughter.  </p><p>‘Christ-on-Merlin,’ Harry whistles. ‘I bet we would’ve gotten the whole defeating-Voldemort thing done in four years. Probably broken a lot less rules though,’ he adds, almost mournfully. <em>Would Hogwarts really have been the same without all those detentions?</em></p><p>‘Snape might’ve been nicer to us,’ Ron adds thoughtfully. </p><p>Harry laughs at that thought. ‘Not a chance in hell, mate,’ he says, clapping Ron on the back. ‘Snape was pretty set on hating my face from birth.’ He nods towards the far end of his garden. ‘Fancy taking a gander at the monstrosity Neville got for me as a wedding gift?’</p><p>‘Does it have tentacles?’ Ron asks warily.</p><p>‘Nah,’ Harry replies, already setting off towards it. ‘Just fangs.’</p><p>‘Why is it always <em>fangs</em>?’ Ron complains, throwing his hands skyward in disbelief. </p><p>‘Pest control,’ replies Harry gleefully. ‘And Neville’s the same with his plants as Hagrid is with his animals.’</p><p>After Ron’s had an appropriate viewing of the hybrid nightmare of the plant and uttered a few choice cuss-words at the thing, they circle back up towards the house. Ron flops down beneath the old oak in Harry’s garden and leans back against its gnarled trunk. Harry pulls off his shoes and socks, rolls up his trouser-legs, and drops down on the earth next to Ron. </p><p>They sit together for a while in a companionable silence that is as much a conversation as any. The stars are hidden behind a faint dusting of clouds, but the moon is a fat dollop of cream against the sky and the air smells like roses and lemon rinds. A lively song picks up on the wireless, overlain with laughter and conversation. </p><p>Harry’s gaze drifts away from his guests, outwards to the edge of the table where the light is dimmest - and there he spots Blaise and Charlie sitting together beneath the branches of a young lemon tree. Blaise’s hand is curled within Charlie’s palm, his face soft and unguarded and his eyes wide and almost fearful, even as Charlie reaches up to cup his free hand around the back of Blaise’s neck. </p><p>‘Bloody hell,’ squawks Ron, and for a moment Harry thinks he’s spotted Blaise and Charlie as well, but when he turns around to face his friend, he finds Ron pointing at the opposite corner of the garden.</p><p>‘Ah,’ says Harry, finally spotting the source of Ron’s distress. </p><p>Pansy is up against the garden wall, snogging Fleur’s little sister like her life depends on it.</p><p>‘I’ve been betrayed,’ Ron exclaims. ‘<em>Betrayed.</em>’</p><p>‘You like Pansy,’ Harry reminds him. He decides not to mention the other couple now entangled in a passionate embrace beneath the lemon tree, lest Ron have a complete meltdown. </p><p>Eventually, Hermione and Draco wander over to them once they’ve tired of dancing. Hermione is tucked beneath Draco’s arm, her cheeks pinked, her hair fallen free of its sensible knot.  Hermione spills into Ron, laughing delightedly as she kicks off her heels and stretches out her legs in the grass. Draco follows suit, sitting behind Harry with his shins bracketing Harry’s thighs. He pulls Harry back to lean against his chest, and Harry tucks his head beneath Draco’s chin. </p><p>None of them are particularly young anymore, but in this moment, they almost feel like teenagers again, sitting together as the music slips into something a little sweeter, a little slower - and it makes them nostalgic for a past that none of them share, but one that could have been. <em>Should have been.</em></p><p>‘How is this for everything-forever-happy-ending?’ Draco asks Harry, in a quiet murmur, his thumbs tracing gentle patterns over the backs of Harry’s hands. </p><p>Harry closes his eyes and tips his head back, back, until the base of his skull rests against Draco’s shoulder. ‘It’s wonderful,’ he sighs. </p><p>‘Good,’ says Draco, and kisses his cheek. </p><p>-</p><p>They honeymoon in Nimes. They eat honey-soaked cheese on the balcony of their hotel room and drink pastis in the late afternoon as the dry heat of the day is at its most brutal point. They go to vineyards and markets and hike through ancient olive gardens and follow the lines of old aqueducts from town to town. Harry learns to kayak, and Draco gets horribly sunburnt and Harry rubs soothing salve onto his reddened shoulders in the safety of their room. </p><p>In the night, they open the windows as the air cools. The wind is scented with lavender and the sky is bedazzled with meteor showers. The curtains billow in dramatic arcs, ghosting over the edge of their bed.</p><p>As with everything else he does, Draco makes love with gentle, aching tenderness. He traces the arch of Harry’s back with careful fingertips as they pull close, close.</p><p>‘Now I understand Icarus’s folly,’ he whispers into the crook of Harry’s neck. ‘I, too, would set myself aflame, singe my skin with molten wax and burnt feathers, to kiss but one divot -’ his hand sweeps down, fingers splaying possessively at the small of Harry’s back - ‘here at the base of your spine.’</p><p>Harry feels too full of love - so full that he might burst. He thinks about how he’s already flown through fire for something that was not yet love, but, oh, it was <em>something </em>- something strange and old and woven between the two of them from the moment they met in Madam Malkin’s, a prince and a poor orphan. Or perhaps their love was already seeded when they were but carefree children, chasing each other on broomsticks in an early Autumn sky. </p><p>Harry cups Draco’s face, guiding his trailing gaze back up to meet Harry’s eyes. ‘Don’t set yourself aflame,’ he says, a little bit teasing and a little bit solemn. ‘You promised.’</p><p>Draco’s smiles lazily. ‘Hm.’ He leans in close for a kiss. ‘I suppose I did.’</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If this is a love story, then it is at least in part one about the love that our friends and found family give us. Thank you so much for coming along this ride with me. I hope this new year is kinder to you than the last.<br/>I actually really like the vegan places in Soho. I went to Mildred’s for a friend’s birthday and it was so very good.<br/>P.S. In case any of you are wondering, Artemis is not living with Draco in Brussels because Artemis wasn’t exactly a kitten when he was adopted and passed peacefully at the ripe old age of 21 (at Draco’s best estimate) surrounded by lovely things and his favourite brand of catnip. Also, I’m gonna go back and edit Aretmis’ gender for consistency once this is all done because apparently I can’t remember anything, my brain is a sieve, wow.<br/>If you want to say hi, I’m totheseaweshallgo on tumblr dot com :D</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's 2020, and I'm not over the fact that JK did our boy Malfoy a real disservice with that throwaway ending - and don't get me started on the epilogue. These kids have PTSD, Jo. Actual PTSD.<br/>Also I wanted to write some pining. We love a good bit of pining.<br/>If I messed up any lore, let me know! It's been a hot minute since I was a devoted fan.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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